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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465605">Head in the Lion's Mouth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit'>renwhit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Come What May [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Brief and skippable), (Not explicitly but he's written as such), (Nothing gross just a minor trauma response), (a sprinkling of JonMarTim but can be read as platonic if you prefer), ADHD Danny, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguously hopeful ending, Angst, Autistic Jon, BPD Tim, Background Ship Teasing, Brainwashing, Cane user Jon, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Danny Lives AU, Depersonalization, Derealization, Dissociation, Divergence from MAG99 onward, Emotional Manipulation, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Gen, Hard of Hearing Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Malaysian Stokers (and it matters!), Memory Loss, Mild Age Regression, Nightmares, Offscreen Interrogation, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Buried Daisy is a nightmare woman, Relationship Abuse, Renwhit-Typical Abstract Bullshit, Sibling Bonding, Statement, Stockholm Syndrome, Stranger!Danny, The Unknowing, Uncertain Loyalty, Unreliable Narrator, abuse recovery, cult abuse, selective mutism, unreality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:14:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>158,114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while.  “I’m the ringmaster, of course.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Is that skin— is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally, I mean.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”</i>
</p><p>On relearning, reconnecting, and redefining.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain &amp; Danny Stoker, Basira Hussain &amp; Tim Stoker, Danny Stoker &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Danny Stoker &amp; Helen Richardson, Danny Stoker &amp; Jonathan Sims, Danny Stoker &amp; Melanie King, Danny Stoker &amp; Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood &amp; Danny Stoker, Martin Blackwood &amp; Tim Stoker, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Come What May [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dodo’s Archive, GerryTitan verse</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. THE MAGICIAN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>before we begin, a few things:</p><p>1. as you can probably tell from the tags, this fic is going to deal with some very heavy concepts, and like any story things will get worse before they get better</p><p>2. because of how dark/complex this story is, each chapter will have relevant content warnings in the endnotes</p><p>3. all that said, this is ultimately a recovery fic, not pain for its own sake. i know that's a spoiler in a way, but it's important to me that you guys know for every bit of struggle and abuse, there's just as much healing further down the road</p><p>anyway! everyone please buckle your seatbelts bc i guaran-fuckin-tee none of you are ready for what's coming</p><p>suggested listening: welcome to the circus by skittish</p><p>as always and forever, send ron <a href="https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/">@gerrydelano</a> your love for betaing and for helping me develop this story into what is now!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ringmaster was, as all names, a misnomer. </p><p> </p><p>It was his role in the show, and a role he performed well — a role he loved, with the same thrillsick fear of blinding stage lights. </p><p> </p><p>He was the master of the show. He was the master of none. It was as simple as that.</p><p> </p><p>The dancer was the star. Nikola, for now. She controlled the show and the troupe and the everything.</p><p> </p><p>He ran the stage, he led the performers, and he called the crowd. Drew them in. Kept their attention. Any show must have an audience, and once he called them to their seats the dance would hold them fast. </p><p> </p><p>He was, after all, very pretty. Charismatic. It was why he was allowed to keep his skin. </p><p> </p><p>Allowed the time being, at any rate. All costumes must change. He wasn’t particularly eager — the process seemed an unpleasant one, and one he was glad to not remember. They hadn’t ever finished with him, not before he made his case and took on his role, and thankfully his clothes hid the scars with no trouble. </p><p> </p><p>Still, unpleasant or no, it must be done. They would likely keep his shed costume around for use by others in the show (the dollmaker was a greedy one, always looking for more to hold in alleyways and hidden corners, and as a lure he would draw in plenty). He could wear it again, maybe, but it would never fit the same. </p><p> </p><p>He was a part of the show; the ringmaster who was master of none. He would play that part in whichever costume he was told.</p><p> </p><p>The whole place buzzed about costumes these days — Nikola was a finicky sort, and demanded only the best for her biggest performance. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t blame her, of course. She needed to be well dressed to dance the world new, and there was no doubt she knew more about what was needed than him. Still, part of him doubted this was ideal. Skin so marred and mistreated, it’d never work. The scars alone made it nearly unusable.</p><p> </p><p>His skin bore scars of its own now from the interrupted process the first time around, but otherwise it was flawless. Besides, they fell in the same places the others would cut into again. If they thought they couldn’t work around that when it came time for him to change costumes, they simply would have finished with him the first time. </p><p> </p><p>Part of him wondered why he still internally shrank away from the change — yes, it would hurt, but so did anything worth doing. That done would mean he could be fully, truly part of the show, able to change his face and his name and his being at a whim. <em>Ringmaster</em> sounded lovely and tripped off the tongue like a falling acrobat, but who knew how something else would feel? </p><p> </p><p>Until the day came for him to lose his original face, he wouldn’t worry about it. </p><p> </p><p>Their new Archivist didn’t have the same luxury. He was here as nothing more than a mannequin for Nikola’s new costume, and wasn’t <em> that </em> funny? </p><p> </p><p>A very loud mannequin, of course. One that complained and asked questions and shouted plenty. Didn’t he know that being quiet would make this easier for them all? Maybe, if he did as he was told, he could get his own role in the performance. Start low, just like the ringmaster had — maybe as a pitchman. He certainly talked enough for it. He wasn’t quite as pretty or charismatic, though, so the ringmaster wasn’t sure if he’d have the same success in rising the ranks from there and keeping his skin. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, it didn’t matter. Nikola wanted to wear him. No, there was no place in the show for an Archivist. </p><p> </p><p>He had no place in the show, but they still needed to keep the man alive. Alive, unharmed, all that. Bring food, bring water. Release his bonds every so often or change the placement. The normal drudgery of humans. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster was sure he had to worry about things like food and water at some point. Right? It was difficult to think of anything back before dizzying moving colors, but it wasn’t as if he had reason to. Before was about those little things, annoying things, things he didn’t miss. He had a purpose here. A role. Whatever was before, he knew he didn’t have those, and here he did. </p><p> </p><p>There was no going back after hearing crowds cheer at his command. All those eyes on him at the snap of his fingers, their screamlaughs heady and neon and matching his own in perfect harmony. Blinding. </p><p> </p><p>It was with those spinning brightlight blinders filling his head that he almost walked into the troupe contortionist. She looked the same as ever — he often wondered if she was also allowed her own skin, or if she’d grown comfortable in a costume she’d picked up at some point. </p><p> </p><p>He knew better than to ask. Him keeping his own as long as he had was a bit taboo around here, and something he never brought up when he could avoid it. Doing so meant bringing up that same teasing and needling about finally changing his, and he could only brush the others off for so long. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, they would lose patience with his hesitation. There was no reason to hasten that. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist dropped her legs down from the handstand he’d almost knocked into, and when her feet were planted, slowly rolled up to stand.</p><p> </p><p>“Leave your eyes onstage?” she asked with a nudge to the gold epaulettes on his jacket. Performance attire, of course. Today’s event was a small one, but it was important to keep things functioning as normal even as Nikola made her preparations for the true performance. </p><p> </p><p>He laughed. “Still in my head for now. No, I was just thinking about the show earlier.” Minutes ago, probably, but it wasn’t as if time meant much around here. Having to remember its flow in order to keep the Archivist well cared for was a learning curve for them all. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist’s round blue eyes lit up. “Anything fun tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>She always preferred shows with larger crowds, but he thought this one might be exciting enough to sate her interest, “The people were so <em> loud, </em> it was incredible. Nikola decided to test out the iron jaw tricks with them.” He grinned at the memory and the old fear still settled in his bones. “You know how she gets with audience participants.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that sounds <em> fun. </em> I tried to get the couriers to help me with another trick I wanted to practice, but apparently they had something to deliver.” Her nose scrunched with absolute symmetry.</p><p> </p><p>He was sorry to add another disappointment on top of that. “I would help, but I’m on Archivist watch for a bit. When I’m done, we can practice. If you need two people, I think the dollmaker has the Daniel Rawlings skin still around — that costume was about the same size as me; it should work as a base for whatever trick you need us for.”</p><p> </p><p>Twin spots of indignant red colored her cheeks. <em> “You </em> have to do that job? You’re the <em> ringmaster, </em> can’t they get someone else?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m making sure Nikola’s costume is in good condition for the dance. That’s plenty important!” </p><p> </p><p>She sighed, then gave him a brief, cold hug. “Fine, but we’re practicing after, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t miss it.” </p><p> </p><p>With a quick smile to show she wasn’t truly upset, she flipped back to the ground to land on her hands, lifted her legs back into the air so they curled over her shoulders, and walked away on her palms. Show-off.</p><p> </p><p>Finding the Archivist’s room took dodging around wax figures, marionettes, and notably, a large rack of various unused skins. Both performers pushing the rack were out of costume, but despite the blank white plaster of their faces, he could tell they were irritated. He gave a quick, apologetic wave as he danced past in order to keep from knocking into anything else.</p><p> </p><p>When he came finally into the proper room, he did so with a sigh. It was so <em>quiet</em> in here. Dull. The Archivist had been far too dizzy and unable to orient himself in the other rooms, and Nikola enjoyed talking to him too much to leave him in that state. Such was necessity.</p><p> </p><p>Still, that didn’t mean the ringmaster enjoyed it. He was able to acclimate to the way of things here, couldn’t the Archivist?</p><p> </p><p>He supposed it must be hard with eyes that wide open. They’d just have to be patient. </p><p> </p><p>Or, no. No, it wouldn’t matter for the Archivist. He wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. It wasn’t a quick process; just being able to walk through the back rooms without getting nauseous at all the moving color <em> everything </em> took— it took him— </p><p> </p><p>It took a while. The time frame didn’t matter. He acclimated.</p><p> </p><p>When the one on post saw him come in the room, they sighed. The juggler, if the things twirling through the air were any indicator. They caught each spinning piece as it fell, then with the flick of the wrist, sent one flying. It landed square between the eyes of a figure too deformed to name, buried to the hilt in wax. </p><p> </p><p>Not the juggler. The knife thrower. Right. He needed to get better at identifying roles on sight — everyone else seemed to have a knack for it he didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it would only come to him if he finally changed his costume. That might be what kept him from the ability to draw those lines and know people past anything as untrue as their name. Maybe — though as comforting a notion as it was the ringmaster doubted it was true — all he needed was more time, no change required.</p><p> </p><p>No blades came anywhere near the Archivist, of course. The knife thrower would be done for if they marked this skin. Still, though, they should know better.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster stepped in to relieve the thrower of their post. “You know that if you make him jump too much, he’ll just rub his wrists raw. That’s still damage.” </p><p> </p><p>“Can you blame me for being bored?” Their voice was unpleasant today, grating and nasal. </p><p> </p><p>“No, but I can blame you for not getting a different set of pipes,” he replied. “We have options!” </p><p> </p><p>They flipped and caught another knife, then sent it flying towards him. He knew better than to dodge or flinch. It sailed past a millimeter away from his temple, then sank into the doorframe behind him. </p><p> </p><p>“We also have people whose <em> role </em> in the show is for you to throw knives at them!” Still bright, still friendly, still with his own pleasant voice. Hopefully, even with skin traded and swapped, Nikola wouldn’t mind him keeping that. </p><p> </p><p>As the knife thrower left with a huff, the ringmaster ducked behind one waxwork to where they kept some bottles of water. No telling when the last member of the troupe remembered to give the Archivist one. </p><p> </p><p>When he crossed over to the Archivist’s chair, the man eyed him suspiciously. They’d seen each other before this, but it was outside this singular room where things kept in the lines. He imagined the Archivist probably remembered little of what was outside it, or else, remembered plenty and had no way to understand. </p><p> </p><p>When the ringmaster reached out to undo the gag, the Archivist held very still. Good. The others needed little reason to bother him and make all this wholly unpleasant, but it seemed some things the Archivist was learning at last. The ringmaster couldn’t fault him for taking as long as he did to do so, not when he was sure it’d taken him plenty of time himself. Probably.</p><p> </p><p>“Lovely to meet you, Archivist! I’m going to untie your hands, alright?” He folded the gag and set it aside, voice cheery the whole while. “No good if you lose circulation or something, and I’d rather not just— just hover over you holding a water bottle for you to drink,” he added with a slight laugh at the thought. </p><p> </p><p>“Appreciated.” The Archivist’s voice was dry, but the ringmaster didn’t mind. Acclimating to new situations often made people standoffish. </p><p> </p><p>As the ringmaster worked at the knots, he could feel eyes lingering on his face. It was such a common sensation he almost missed it, but the Archivist’s attention felt different than the crowds he drew in with such ease. </p><p> </p><p>Rather than say anything, the Archivist took the offered water bottle and drank near half of it in one gulp. The ringmaster would have to check in on that, then. Hydration was important in keeping good skin. If others weren’t giving the Archivist enough water, that was counterproductive. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster wasn’t sure there was any saving this skin, scruffy and scar-riddled as it was, but that was no reason for them to make the job harder on themselves. </p><p> </p><p>There was a long stretch of quiet as the Archivist drained the remaining water in sips. The ringmaster hated quiet. It felt wrong. Unnatural, when music should fill all the air and keep things spinning along. Quiet made things empty. Too clear. </p><p> </p><p>He hummed under his breath, that same calliope tune he first heard when he came to the show. It never failed to keep everything in pleasant upside-down inside-out motion.</p><p> </p><p>Unsurprisingly, the Archivist ruined its melody with his incessant words.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your name?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s a bold question to ask around here, Archivist.” He didn’t intend to threaten, merely warn. Finding all the trapdoors on a stage took time and consequence. If he could give some small nod to one, he didn’t see the harm in that. </p><p> </p><p>“...Right. Alright, then.” A beat. The ringmaster knew better than to believe it meant an end to the inquiry. “Who are you?”</p><p> </p><p>He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while. “I’m the ringmaster, of course.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is that skin— is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?” Possibly a dangerous question, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Familiar?” he repeated. “Have you been to one of our shows before?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but I’ve read plenty about your <em> shows.” </em> The Archivist spoke the word with no shortage of distaste. Unsurprising if he’d never seen a performance in all its sickshock glory. If he did, he would understand.</p><p> </p><p>No. No, he <em> wouldn’t </em> understand. That was the point. There was nothing that could be understood, and it was wonderful.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry you won’t get to see all the acts for yourself,” the ringmaster said with genuine remorse. “Got to keep to schedule and all, you understand.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. The show must go on, I’m sure.”</p><p> </p><p>As always, the phrase sent electricity down his spine and a flash of colorfear in his eyes. He hid it with a pleased smile. “Exactly!”</p><p> </p><p>No, not hid. It was pleasing down to the root. Nothing to hide.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s eyes went narrow. What did he see? “You really can’t tell me your name?”</p><p> </p><p>“I already did!” A wink punctuated the turnaround. “Names don’t mean anything, it’s your role that matters. You ought to know that by now, Archivist.”</p><p> </p><p>It went silent after that. The Archivist’s head was tilted back with eyes closed. Trying to sleep, maybe. The ringmaster remembered that he hadn’t been allowed to sleep when he joined the show. Much too much to see. He did miss it, just a little, but sleep was a small price to pay.</p><p> </p><p>Quiet again. The ringmaster had nothing but his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>Familiar, hm? Like someone the Archivist knew. Strange.</p><p> </p><p>That same curiosity pressed at the back of the ringmaster’s head like a headache. Pounding. Wrong. </p><p> </p><p>He went back to humming the same unsettling, comforting tune. Even with nothing else here for him, that song would always be in his head. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, the next shift change grew close enough that the ringmaster had to shake himself free of his drifting through the colorblur in his head. He crossed back to the Archivist with the discarded gag in hand.</p><p> </p><p>First, to replace the restraints — higher up this time to keep from damaging one section of skin with the rough cords. The Archivist blinked out of his own blur as soon as rope met skin. </p><p> </p><p>“I really am sorry about this,” the ringmaster said as he checked his knots. “Being contained isn’t much fun.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist adopted that same searching look as when he asked about names. “You have experience with that, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Members of the troupe have to come from somewhere! Not all of us have been around since the Russia days.”</p><p> </p><p>It was clear the Archivist intended to ask another question, but before he could say a word, the ringmaster lifted the gag.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, but I need to put this back before the next person gets here.” He made a go at a sympathetic smile. “We’re not supposed to take it off at all, but having one of those on for so long makes your jaw sore as anything. Though,” he continued as he knotted it against the back of the Archivist’s head. “You probably don’t need me to tell you that.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mmpf.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster rounded the Archivist’s chair once more to crouch in front of him. “Before I go, just… some advice? You should really think about going along with all this.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Mrmf.” </em> Unintelligible as ever, but with a stubbornness in his eyes too strong to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>"I know, I know it feels better to dig your heels in sometimes, but it won’t get you anywhere — just more unnecessary punishments.” He stood again. “Trust me, cooperating makes things much easier.” </p><p> </p><p>There was that searching look again, but gagged the Archivist could do nothing but look.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, that’s all, then. I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m on watch next, so I’ll see you soon!”</p><p> </p><p>As he passed an acrobat on the way to take up post, even brightspin chaos just outside the door couldn’t shake that obstinate needle of curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>Familiar, like someone the Archivist knew. Strange. Very strange. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster often left their company’s backstage to invite people to shows. His skill at bringing in the crowds was what made him such a successful ringmaster — why not use the time he took doing that to search for this person as well? No harm in satisfying his curiosity. If the two of them really did look alike, they might be a wonderful addition to the show. </p><p> </p><p>It was decided. The next time the ringmaster left, he would do so with thoughts of this mystery person that looked so like him.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>It took no great deduction for the ringmaster to settle on where he would begin; the Archivist spent all his time as the Eye’s stronghold. All his time not at the flat the couriers said smelled of death, anyway. As unpleasant as he found the thought of being watched without ceasing, death would be worse. Curiosity wasn’t worth his life.</p><p> </p><p>So, the temple of the Watcher. As fine a place as any for the show to begin.</p><p> </p><p>Even out of his usual performer’s clothes, the ringmaster knew he was eye-catching, so being stopped a few times by passersby came as no surprise.</p><p> </p><p>Ha, <em> eye</em>-catching. He’d have to tell the contortionist that one later.</p><p> </p><p>Or, no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t place why, but for some reason this felt like something to keep to himself — even from her, though she was the first one he truly talked to after joining. She was the closest thing he had to a confidant. Still, this felt like his alone.</p><p> </p><p>Stranger and stranger.</p><p> </p><p>Those that stopped him never did so for long, merely wishing to give him a compliment or some other nicety before that perfect unsettled look came over them and they made themselves scarce. He invited none to a show — this close to the Eye, there was too much risk of catching the wrong attention. His skill any other day at collecting the crowds meant that, with any luck, today’s failure would go unnoticed. </p><p> </p><p>Circling the building a few times earned glimpses of a handful that held more of the Eye’s focus — assuming his sense for those much too clear was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt. Know thy enemy, et cetera. </p><p> </p><p>He dismissed a few out of hand: a woman whose loose black curls did nothing to hide how she was built of knifepoint edges; another with dark skin, covered hair, and sharp eyes; and a third whose small stature took nothing from her wolfteeth. </p><p> </p><p>It was the third who almost caught him. With the second woman at her side, she froze on the temple steps with every muscle wound so tight the ringmaster could see her ready to pounce from his place across the street. </p><p> </p><p>He ducked into a small cafe with his heart in his throat. A glance risked through the window showed the two on the steps exchange a few words, then the taller making her own scan of passersby. By the time he felt he could risk another, he only just caught both women as they crossed the temple’s threshold. </p><p> </p><p>After a charming smile and a few of his own words to placate the shopkeeper, he left once more to take up watch again.</p><p> </p><p>Only one person gave him pause — a man, tall like him, with dark hair and eyes. The similarities ended there. His face was rounder than the ringmasters, and the half-moon glasses he wore only made it seem even moreso. If this was the one the Archivist thought looked similar, maybe his eyes weren’t as sharp as the ringmaster thought.</p><p> </p><p>Still, he couldn’t help but feel he was missing something, and he was nothing if not persistent. </p><p> </p><p>As a few days and another show passed (tightropes as the central act, always a crowd-pleaser), the ringmaster extended his circumference around the Eye’s stronghold whenever he got the chance to look: if this person wasn’t there, maybe they were nearby. It was a flimsy excuse to put off going to that death-scented place, but knowing that didn’t make the ringmaster anymore eager to take his chances there. He wasn’t even sure why he kept looking. Something about the person with a face like his dug into his head and refused to let go — not so distracting that it interrupted his wide-smiled performances, but a distraction nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>Every alley he passed looked the same; nondescript and nameless as anything else. He only noticed an equally-nondescript door set halfway down one from its opening, and caught a glimpse of dull grey brick through its frame as a man came through. </p><p> </p><p>With a quick step the ringmaster hid behind the corner of a wall at the other end of the alley. He hadn’t seen much before hiding, but he knew this was the man he was looking for. A bit shorter than the ringmaster, a bit broader in the shoulders, but this was who the Archivist meant.</p><p> </p><p>The same curious itch of <em> wrong </em> pulsed in his head, moments from blurring to a truly miserable headache, but he needed to understand the certainty that upstaged it all. </p><p> </p><p>When the man left the alley after a long, searching pause, the ringmaster followed. </p><p> </p><p>As they walked, he noticed more similarities. They had a similar build of curving muscle, though the ringmaster was on the leaner side. His skin was a slightly lighter shade of brown than the man’s, but they had the same warm undertones. The man’s own skin carried far more marks — scars matching the Archivist’s.</p><p> </p><p>They weren’t perfect copies by any means. Despite that, the ringmaster had no doubts: this was who he needed to find. </p><p> </p><p>How was he supposed to approach something like this? What was he even looking for? As they walked, the ringmaster whipping behind corners whenever the man looked over his shoulder, he wracked his thoughts and came up empty. Having to hide over and over at a moment’s notice did his focus no favors, and the man never stopped checking behind him. Paranoid as anything. </p><p> </p><p>It was after one such close call that the ringmaster left his cover and saw the man was gone. Vanished. He could see no sign of that dark, tied back hair anywhere. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster kept forward for a few more paces. Had the man turned a corner he didn’t see? Gone in a building? He saw no doors swinging shut, but it was possible. </p><p> </p><p>This was bad. He was so <em> close, </em> to this man, to answers, to figuring out why his head hurt so much. He was close, and he lost it. </p><p> </p><p>He was resigning himself to returning home empty-handed when a harsh grip closed around his shoulder and dragged him into the alley at his back. </p><p> </p><p>Things moved in a prismatic migraine haze that kept the ringmaster from struggling until there was one hand fisted in his shirt and a forearm pressed along his collarbones, threatening to put its full weight on his throat. </p><p> </p><p>The man’s face was dark. Thunderous. “Guess Jon’s stalking had one benefit — I know when I’m being followed.” </p><p> </p><p>Blank, the ringmaster could only stare with eyes wide. The name itself meant nothing, but it made something else stir in his head. </p><p> </p><p>When he got no reply, low-rolling fury hissed in the man’s teeth. “‘Course you picked <em> this </em> skin. Message fucking recieved.”</p><p> </p><p>Pure nonsense. This was his skin. What other skin would he wear? Did this man expect him to change costumes just as much as the troupe? </p><p> </p><p>At the ringmaster’s silence, the man shook him roughly by the shirt with the brick harsh and dragging at his back. </p><p> </p><p>“So you thought it’d be a good idea to follow me in his— in this skin.” His voice was as harsh as the brick with something much deeper underneath; an echo of old pains, like a broken bone that was never set and healed crooked. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now and make sure no one else can wear him like a cheap g-ddamn <em>shirt.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Because I know your name.” The ringmaster’s own words shocked him, but he had no doubts. He knew the man’s name, he did, and that was wrong and made his head pound but he knew his <em>name. </em></p><p> </p><p>The man’s face twisted, but before he could spit his reply, the ringmaster continued.</p><p> </p><p>“I know your name, and I— I don’t know why.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: dissociation + derealization, depictions of jon's captivity and references to danny's own</p><p>in the wings: conversations are had, and little more is understood<br/> <br/><i>[chapters 3-15 edited 7/31/2020 to add HOH (hard of hearing) Tim]</i><br/><i>[all chapters edited 12/8/2020 for minor quality improvements]</i></p><p>NOTICE 4/20/21: for those who follow me on tumblr, you might notice my blog vanished -- no idea why or how, but tumblr support will not reply to my emails! joy of joys. <b>you can follow me at <a href="http://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/">@titanfalling2</a>!!!</b> </p><p>because of this, some fanart links might be broken -- doing my best to fix them, but some might have a notice next to them saying i don't have a working link at all. if its your work or you reblogged it at some point and can find it, <i>PLEASE</i> dm it to me on tumblr or otherwise let me know!! the amt of fan content for my stuff i've lost is genuinely heartbreaking, and i'd like to get as much back as i can.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. TWO OF SWORDS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On truth, lies, and the razor's edge.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>getting into a little more of the goings-on at the circus, so check the end for CWs!</p><p>suggested listening: black out days - phantogram</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ringmaster had no right to be disappointed when the man said nothing, but that didn’t make the sick feeling vanish. </p><p> </p><p>G-d, his head ached. It ached and his throat felt tight with a desperation he couldn’t explain and he didn’t know why this man looking at him with such suspicion hurt so much but it <em> did </em> and he didn’t <em> understand.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I-I’m not supposed to know anyone’s name, but I know yours.” What was it about the man in front of him that could possibly make his words grow so thick within moments? Regardless, that was no good, that was wrong, so he did as he always did when wrong built solid in his throat: he smiled. “I know your name— I shouldn’t, but I do, and I think— I think that’s important.” Rambling, nonsensical, but knowing that didn’t mean he could stop the words before they fell and shattered like porcelain. </p><p> </p><p>The expression on the man’s face was hard to read as he pulled away by a few inches. No more anger-bared teeth, but also no smile. That was wrong, he should smile. Didn’t he usually? Where did his smile go? “Yeah? What is it, then?”</p><p> </p><p>Names were tripwires, he knew, and saying them was wrong, wrong, wrong, but it was all he had now. Maybe this trapdoor would lead somewhere truthsharp.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim. You’re— you’re Tim. Right? And…” <em>Whens</em> made his head throb and this man was full of them, but if he got through all these <em>whens</em> then maybe he could earn a <em>what</em> or <em>why.</em> “And I think I used to call you Timmy when… I don’t know. I don’t know but I did, I know I did.”</p><p> </p><p>The man— Tim, <em> Tim. </em> Tim’s jaw set. “That skin come with some loose memories?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, this is— it’s mine.” The ringmaster tugged on his sleeves as if attempting to hide scars he knew were already well-covered. “The dancer, she started on me, but then I asked what I had to do for her to— to stop, and I…” His voice gave out at the look on Tim’s face; a dull sort of horror, muted with disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>“And you don’t know who I am.” Tim’s words came hoarse, but that didn’t matter. The ringmaster was already listening as hard as he could. </p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. What else could he do? Was he still smiling?</p><p> </p><p>Tim pulled back in entirety to look the ringmaster over top to bottom, one loose fist coming up to press against his mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know me, but you— you know my name.” His expression shifted with something the ringmaster couldn’t place. “...Do you know your<em> own?”</em></p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t know what he didn’t have. Another shake of his head. </p><p> </p><p>Tim gave a short, sharp exhale. <em>“Christ,</em> I— Okay.” His eyes stayed locked on the ringmaster, like he was looking for something, or trying to memorize his face. “Your name’s—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Don’t,” </em> the ringmaster hissed. “I can’t know it, I can’t. If I know it, I’ll have to forget it again, the dancer will know and she’ll do everything all over again, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay.” Tim’s hands went up in some attempt to placate. “I won’t say it, I just…” </p><p> </p><p>He went quiet again, and before the ringmaster knew what was happening, there were arms around him. Holding, not constricting. Solid, not immovable. Firm, not squeezing. </p><p> </p><p>Warm.</p><p> </p><p>“G-d, you were… You were <em> there </em> this whole time, and I…” Voice trailing, one of Tim’s hands came up to hold the back of the ringmaster’s head, the other still pressed between his shoulder blades. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s arms stayed at his sides. This was nothing like the contortionist’s hugs, quick and cold and sensible. This was… wrong? Incorrect?</p><p> </p><p>Different. Very different.</p><p> </p><p>His arms stayed, but his face turned in. If he stayed here long enough, maybe it would make sense. </p><p> </p><p>Tim, for his part, seemed in no hurry. It felt like he was shaking. </p><p> </p><p>No epiphanies came by the time Tim released him. He kept one hand on the ringmaster’s arm as if afraid that if he let go the ringmaster would vanish into thin air. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Okay, we can— Let’s go back to my house.” Tim’s face was dry, but his words carried the same thickness the ringmaster’s had just before.</p><p> </p><p>Should the ringmaster tell him to try smiling? That always helped when tears he couldn’t afford threatened. Before he could decide one way or the other, Tim continued.</p><p> </p><p>“You can stay with me. I’m going to help you fix this, alright? I swear, we’ll— we’ll fix it.”</p><p> </p><p>Fix? Was something broken? </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t dwell on that, not when the rest of Tim’s words registered.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t. I have to go back.”</p><p> </p><p>The grip on his arm tightened. “Go <em> back? </em> I’m not letting you go back there.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not <em> letting </em> me do anything,” the ringmaster retorted as he tugged himself free. “They need me for the shows — I’m the ringmaster, I can’t just <em> vanish.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“The ringm—” The word collapsed into an incredulous exhale. “They can find someone else.”</p><p> </p><p>“If I don’t come back, they’ll be worried and look for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, wonder what <em> that’s </em> like!” </p><p> </p><p>Tim had looked for him after he joined? Why was he so upset, then? He knew his… He knew the ringmaster was okay, that he had somewhere to stay, and that he had people looking out for him. Surely that was a comfort.</p><p> </p><p>As the ringmaster mulled over that, Tim took a couple deep breaths.</p><p> </p><p>“If you go back now, what happens?”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Will they hurt you? You said you’re not supposed to— to <em> know names,” </em> Tim continued with a disbelieving slant to his words. “But you came and found me anyway. What consequences are we looking at?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster grimaced. With any luck, it still looked like a smile. It usually did. “I don’t think anyone there knows what I’m doing. I go out on my own plenty, and I didn’t tell anyone. Nikola might still—”</p><p> </p><p>He halted that train of thought before it gained any momentum. If she knew, she knew, and whatever that meant the ringmaster knew he could take it. If he was lucky, it’d end up as nothing more than the normal blowback for a too-small crowd — at this point, with how much time he’d spent looking for Tim, that was almost guaranteed. There were a few days yet before the next show. If he put his all into collecting an audience, he might be able to make up the difference, or at the very least mitigate some of her disappointment. Nothing he hadn’t felt before or would never feel again. That was fine. </p><p> </p><p>That was fine, but he knew Tim wouldn’t understand how the troupe functioned. Outsiders never could. He couldn’t give voice to any of his internal resignation, not when it seemed like Tim might let him go back home. </p><p> </p><p>But no, he’d already messed up. Silence was as telling as words. </p><p> </p><p>“Nikola might what? Who is Nikola?”</p><p> </p><p>Though spotted scars marred the crease in his brow and concern narrowing his eyes, the ringmaster swore he’d seen Tim make this very same face before. Solid. Worried, but covered by practicality. Wherever he knew Tim from, it came with discussing potential consequences for things and how to avoid the worst of it. Keeping each other safe. </p><p> </p><p>It made him want to hug Tim again, properly this time. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to, so he did. Why not? Maybe a second time meant it would make sense. </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t hesitate in returning it, but he kept talking even so. “Da— I need you to talk to me, okay? Who are we talking about here?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nikola,” the ringmaster mumbled into Tim’s shoulder. “She’s in charge, but she— she’s nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Sorry if I don’t take your word on that one.” </p><p> </p><p>Far before he wanted to, the ringmaster pulled away. </p><p> </p><p>Tim looked him in the eye for a long moment before muttering to himself, “G-d, I can’t believe I’m—” He shook his head. “You have to go back this time, or these people will come looking for you. Right?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster nodded. No point in trying to clarify that it was just as much because he <em> wanted </em> to go back to where things spun like they should, not when he knew Tim wouldn’t understand. </p><p> </p><p>“But you’re… You’re <em> not </em> disappearing on me, alright? I’m not losing you again.” </p><p> </p><p>Could the ringmaster promise anything? It wasn’t as if they would be in this area forever. They’d move on again, like any traveling show.</p><p> </p><p>That, or Nikola’s dance would change the world. The ringmaster didn’t know what that would mean, not for him or for his brother. </p><p> </p><p>Oh. His brother. </p><p> </p><p>The word sent a spike of pain through his head, right behind his eyes, but past that was the strange feeling of something slotting into place. </p><p> </p><p>Tim. His brother. Yes. </p><p> </p><p>A touch on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin. Right. Tim, his brother, yes, had asked a question. </p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t know. I want to talk again, but…”</p><p> </p><p>Stubborn resolve drew Tim’s face into hard lines. “If you don’t come find me within a week, I’m coming to find you. Deal?”</p><p> </p><p>“Time is… hard, especially there.” </p><p> </p><p>“What d’you mean, hard?” </p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t really stick in my head?” Calling his explanation poor would be generous, but he didn’t have any other words. “But the Archivist might be able to—”</p><p> </p><p>“Hold on, the archivist?<em> Jon?” </em>Tim sounded completely taken aback. “The hell does he have to do with this?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s head cocked. “He’s… with us?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “With </em> you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I—” Lost, the ringmaster’s shoulders squared. He could feel his mouth pull back into that same smile. What was Tim so upset about now? “You didn’t know?” </p><p> </p><p>“That Jon was— what, <em> kidnapped?!” </em> Tim’s voice grew alongside his broadening gestures. “No, I didn’t know, why the hell would I know that?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster watched his hands more than his face. “Nikola made some recordings on that tape player he uses, I think, to send to you all. She kept saying the name Eli—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Elias, </em> g-ddammit.” With a bit-off groan, Tim pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I knew Jon wasn’t around the past couple weeks, but <em> kidnapped, </em> Christ. And Elias didn’t bother to—”</p><p> </p><p>Hands once again at his sides and agitation slowly draining from his stance with a long, deep breath, Tim looked back to the ringmaster. “He's alive, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” The tension holding the ringmaster’s spine in performance-ready posture began to drain in tandem. </p><p> </p><p>“Is he hurt?” There was no great terror in Tim’s voice, more of an exhausted sort of concern. </p><p> </p><p>“No, not now. Can’t damage his skin.”</p><p> </p><p>“His <em> skin, </em> what—” Tim shook his head. “Later. D’you know how long he’s got ‘til that changes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Until the Unknowing.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim sent him another frustrated, blank look. “And the Unknowing is…?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim, I—”  The ringmaster glanced out to the street just beyond the alley they stood in as if he might see toy soldiers marching their way. “I really need to go, I don’t even know if I should have told you any of that, it’s not— It’s not meant for outsiders, I’m sorry, I—” </p><p> </p><p>Hands back up in that placating gesture, Tim backtracked. “Alright, alright. Do you know when you might be able to come and find me again?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster forced his cloudy, nervous thoughts into order as best he could. “There’s a show in a few days, I can’t do anything before then. The audience is already going to be too small since I didn’t do my job, but that’s— that’s fine.” It was fine. He would be fine. “After that, maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not maybe.” Tim’s voice left no room for argument. “I’ll see you in a few days, then. Okay? You can meet me by that same door where you first saw me.”</p><p> </p><p>With another glance to the street, the ringmaster nodded, then jumped when Tim’s hand closed again on his arm. Firm, not the same desperate grip he had when the ringmaster first mentioned returning. </p><p> </p><p>“I need to hear you say it. In three days, you’ll meet me by that door.” </p><p> </p><p>Daring to agree felt strange, strange, strange, but familiar. Familiar in a way the ringmaster couldn’t describe. </p><p> </p><p>“In three days, I’ll meet you by that door.”</p><p> </p><p>“Promise me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I-I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Tim seemed satisfied. “I know time is hard, so I’ll be there the day after, too. If I don’t see you, I’m going to come find you. Alright?”</p><p> </p><p>If nothing else, that was motivation enough. Either Tim wouldn’t be able to find the troupe, or he would. The ringmaster didn’t know what it would mean if he did, but he knew it made his stomach churn. </p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t let it happen, then. He wouldn’t let Tim encounter the circus, certainly not alone. Not without the ringmaster there to help him. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright.” </p><p> </p><p>Face tight, Tim pulled him into a last hug. He felt shaky again, but no less warm because of it.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster broke the embrace first when it became clear Tim didn’t intend to any time soon. “I’ll… see you later, then.” </p><p> </p><p>Before Tim could voice the doubt written all over his face, the ringmaster left. </p><p> </p><p>Even in the time it took to get back home, he couldn’t shake the memory of that long, warm, incorrect hug, or the guilt and protectiveness in Tim’s— his brother’s, his <em> brother’s </em>eyes. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>A trill of<em> “Ringmaster!” </em> was his only warning before the contortionist slid from whatever perch she found in the rafters to fall towards him as soon as he came in the door.</p><p> </p><p>Her legs landed on his shoulders, and all he could see was the wine-colored fabric and bright gold embroidery on the front of her leotard. Thankfully for them both, she’d always been very, very light, meaning the ringmaster was able to keep his footing after a quick stumble and recovery. </p><p> </p><p>There was no small amount of nostalgia with the move — he could still remember when he first started to get onstage roles, and she began throwing little tricks like this at him between shows. Much better to practice recovering from the unexpected with no audience or Nikola there to disappoint should he fail. </p><p> </p><p>He looked up to see the contortionist staring back down at him, white-blonde curls framing her face as she laced her fingers in his own black hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, there,” she said with a little smile.</p><p> </p><p>He returned it. “Fancy seeing you here.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where have you</span>
  <em>
    <span> been?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She slid back until her knees hooked over his shoulders so she could look at him head-on. Full pout time. “You know no one else is as fun to practice with. The next show is gonna have way too full a house if you keep working like this!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smile. Smile, smile, smile. “I’ve been planning ahead!” he replied as he kept walking through the tumbling brightlights of backstage. Chaos, enough that the last of his headache finally abated. “Instead of just inviting people to this one, I told some about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>show coming up. If they know about it for a little longer, it’ll drum up some interest. Maybe they’ll even bring more friends!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t technically a lie. No, he hadn’t done that yet, but he intended to. There was still enough time before the last performance that the few days difference between when he said he started and when he actually did shouldn’t be noticed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The contortionist's sigh spared no expense on theatrics. Her legs shifted once more so her ankles were crossed behind his neck, and she could fall backwards to let her hands trail on the ground. She was lucky the ringmaster was a good bit taller than her, or she would’ve just cracked her head open on the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With her still swinging in front of him, they passed the collection of backup costumes. Emergencies only, of course, or if one of the troupe was bored. When not needed, they stood in a loose clump, staring vacantly at the ground. Keeping them near-comatose meant they only ever gave off a low thrum of fear rather than anything the ones who subsisted on it could actually indulge in, but containing them when awake, terrified, and overflowing with adrenaline was more trouble than it was worth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ringmaster didn’t like looking at them very much. It always made him feel strange, and no amount of repeating that they were costumes, just costumes, in his head ever crushed the feeling in full. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was he ever one of…? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t think about that. It didn’t matter now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blessedly, the contortionist chose that moment to pull herself back up. Focusing on the glassy blue of her eyes was much easier than paying too close attention to what things surrounded them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leaned in until they were nose to nose, hands on either side of his face so he couldn’t turn his head. All he could see was her, but still he kept walking. Maybe others would get out of their way. Maybe they’d walk right through where knife throwers or fire eaters were practicing. Maybe they’d end up onstage in the middle of some sideshow and have to pull a seamless performance out of nowhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t see anything but her. Any dangers around them remained a mystery. The thrill of the unknown was all a part of the fun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have, mister ringmaster, been very bored without you.” Her eyebrows arched, but he could tell from the purse of her lips she was fighting off a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t bother to push down his own grin even as he matched her serious tone. “Well, miss contortionist, I’m back now. What did you so desperately need me for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When her head tilted, he caught a glimpse of a few other members of the troupe nodding to him and the contortionist, then diving into one of their many collections of props. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before she could answer, he said, “I think you’re not the only bored one — looks like we have an audience.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At that, she failed to keep her smile contained. Quick as a whip she flipped around to sit on his shoulders and locked her hands firmly over his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mouth pressed into his hair, he felt more than heard her whisper, “I’ll guide you. Ready?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no need to reach up and hold her legs to keep her steady. She wouldn’t falter, not in her perch or in telling him where to step. “Always.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt her smile. “First up, bed of nails.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of him was almost disappointed — he was still in his shoes. What kind of thrill came with a trick so safe? </span>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But no, he knew what it truly was: a challenge. Could he make even the show's first trick, nothing more than a warm-up for performers and audience, just as interesting as even the most heart-stopping of acts?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course he could. He wasn’t the ringmaster by accident. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A short step, and he could feel each needlepoint under his shoes. Rather than simply walk, he let the building music move his feet, turning him to step backwards, spin, and weave each step between each other. Dance came as second nature. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Above him, he heard the contortionist snap as she shifted her other hand to cover both his eyes. After a moment it vanished in the wake of a soft strip of velvet. With him truly blindfolded, she set her newly freed hands on his shoulders, then lifted herself up into what he assumed was a handstand above his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spin, step, and he was off to the sound of applause. He grinned so hard his face ached. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shifting weight was his only warning before the contortionist swung down to his back once more and locked her legs around his waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Arms up, left and right when I say.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without a thought, he complied. Cold fingers brushed his skin as she grabbed his shirt by the hem. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Left!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spun as she tugged his shirt up and off, barely missing an explosion of intense heat to the right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, then jump.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More heat, first at his side, then below. Sweat gathered under his blindfold as he smiled and missed each gout of flame by millimeters. It felt like he was dancing in the middle of a furnace, but those cool lips against his ear meant he was in just the right amount of danger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew they were past the fire when he heard another snap. “Arms out!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, no hesitation. With another fluid spin around him, legs still tight against his waist, he felt her pull on one sleeve of his performance jacket, then the other. What was a quick change without some risk? No chance to button it, but that didn’t matter. A show was always better when the performers matched, and now he and his partner were both in wine and gold and smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The contortionist slipped down from her perch leaned against his chest, but she left him stranded for only a moment before taking his hand in hers, far enough </span>
  <span>that his arm extended straight out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With every muscle tense and ready, he kept perfectly still. He could hear small things hiss through the air around him. Though his blindfold meant he had no idea what, he knew that whatever they were, he didn’t want any to hit him. Knives were a fair guess, but who knew for sure? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone did. The thrill of the unknown was his alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The music swelled as the contortionist spun towards him. His other hand came up to meet her as she swapped which she held and spun away again, then tugged him forward in the nick of time as another, much louder hiss snapped through the air just behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they were face to face once more, the contortionist hopped up to where she’d sat before the impromptu show began with her knees hooked over his shoulders. Nose brushing his and lips a centimeter apart, she murmured, “I’m going up, one arm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t wait for confirmation, but she didn’t have to. He wasn’t going to tell her no. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another twirl and, supported by nothing but the grip between their hands, she lifted herself into the air. Keeping his balance took every bit of focus he could scrape up with the dizzying music so loud and no sight to orient himself, but he knew the trick wasn’t over yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rather than keep his arm bent and locked next to him so their joined hands sat level with his shoulder, he slowly, carefully straightened it above his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the others cheered, two fingers tapped against the back of his hand. She wouldn’t be able to tell him where to go now, not when it’d mean her shouting down and ruining the illusion. Old code — one tap meant left, two meant right, a quick squeeze to speed up and a long one to stop moving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no need to talk. He followed her direction. He didn’t need to know the path or the consequences of failing to follow her, not when he knew that she could keep him safe without ruining the thrill of the show. He trusted her implicitly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With melody and harmony pounding against each other like living creatures and the howling, laughing, cheering crowd, he was deaf as well as blind. No hints as to what he dodged. No telling how many close calls he had. There were only screamlaughs caught in his throat and a guiding hand in his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had no measure of time, not ever, and with nothing else to ground him its absence came with an unusual edge. How long had they been doing this? The crowd still sounded plenty entertained, but before anything else he was a showman. He could entertain as long as needed, always. That was why he was here. He could do this as long as needed, he could, he did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smile. Smile, smile, smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a twirl and dance around </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>that earned a chorus of gasps and applause, he felt the weight above his head shift beyond the slight movements of the contortionist’s usual pose changes. He reached up to join their other hands and planted himself as she swung down. Rather than land on her feet, her momentum kept swinging forward as she slid between his legs. He shifted quickly and let himself fall forward to roll over one shoulder, hands still locked with hers. Another quick turn as he hopped back to his feet and released one hand’s grip, and they came back up shoulder to shoulder with blinding grins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the subsequent applause, they swept as one down into an overdramatic bow. The contortionist sounded as unruffled as ever, but the ringmaster’s chest heaved from exertion and his heart raced at the delicious rush of adrenaline and fear that came with any good performance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, wonderful, wonderful show!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nikola’s voice carried without trouble over the clamoring troupe. Even blindfolded, she had enough presence that the ringmaster could feel her approach. Smooth, plastic fingers tapped under his chin, their sharp tips biting into his skin. “Head up, ringmaster! Make sure the audience can always see that pretty face if you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>set on keeping it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He did so, smiling, smiling, smiling, and grateful that the blindfold still protected him. He hadn’t done anything wrong when he left, he was sure he hadn’t, but if she couldn’t see his eyes, she might not see enough to make that judgment herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another cold pat to his cheek, and Nikola swept off. The ringmaster let himself breathe again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smaller hands, just as cold and safe, cupped his face as the contortionist pressed a kiss to the end of his nose, then reached up to undo the knotted velvet behind </span>
  <span>his head.</span>
  <em>
    <span> However </span>
  </em>
  <span>long of deprivation meant the colorsharp shapes around hit with jagged intensity, but the contortionist’s eyes were the same soothing, clear blue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, there,” she said with an attempt at the same small smile she gave him when he first got back, but the rush of a show overwhelmed it with a breathless grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fancy seeing you here,” he replied, just as breathless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head tilted as she tried for a pout with the same futility. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>guess</span>
  </em>
  <span> that makes up for missing practice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could only laugh at that, too lightheaded with adrenaline to reply, but she didn’t seem to mind his lack of words. Another kiss, this time to both cheeks, and she released him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, let’s get you some shoes before you stain the floor!” One hand in his, she tugged him off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shoes? Stain the floor? What was she talking about?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ringmaster looked down to see dark prints across the ground. Had he… taken off his shoes before walking that bed of nails? When? Why? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each step hurt, and he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed that the whole time they danced. He could feel light burns under his jacket, but those he expected. No cuts from whatever they’d been throwing around. A relatively harmless show, in the end. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, when the contortionist threw both arms around him in a quick, cold, sensible embrace, he decided it didn’t matter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things didn’t make sense here, and it was wonderful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still couldn’t shake the memory of those guilty, protective eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: dissociation + derealization (honestly just assume this stands for the whole series), implied abuse, trauma bonds, continued indoctrination, some gaslighting. because our pov character is the one being ultimately groomed for the role he plays, huge warnings for the sort of trust bonds that come with the one who “cares” for a person in that position.</p><p>in the wings: names are put to faces</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. THE HIGH PRIESTESS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On messages, names, and second-guessed secrets.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>finally we move away from baby sized chapters. check the endnote for CWs!</p><p>suggested listening: the mind electric by miracle musical</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I don’t suppose Breekon and Hope bothered to grab my cane when they brought me here.”</p><p> </p><p>Breekon and Hope? Oh, the couriers. Yes.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster sat back from where he’d just finished undoing the knots around the Archivist’s ankles. </p><p> </p><p>“Mm, I don’t think so, but…” </p><p> </p><p>He scanned the waxworks that shared this room. There, with some figure whose round face was twisted in what might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a scream, might’ve been both: an old-fashioned walking stick. He crossed to it and, with one hand braced on the figure’s chest, gripped the cane and gave a sharp tug.</p><p> </p><p>The cane pulled free and snapped off a finger with it. Whoops. Brow furrowed, he shook the cane to try and unstick wax from wood. </p><p> </p><p>An absent hand against its chest wasn’t enough to keep the figure steady without its cane, and it began to tip forward as the broken-off finger hit the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Woah—!” The ringmaster braced its substantial weight with a forearm, then spared a quick glance to the Archivist over one shoulder. “Catch!” With the slowest toss he could muster, he sent the cane across the room in a low arc.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist managed to grab with the hand not twisted by scars despite how startled he looked, and the ringmaster grinned. </p><p> </p><p>“Nice! We’ll make a performer of you yet.” The ringmaster could feel the Archivist’s tired glare as he pushed the figure that nearly toppled onto him against the wall, but it was no matter. </p><p> </p><p>If the wax figure’s eyes moved, the ringmaster didn’t know it. Better not to know some things. </p><p> </p><p>He turned back to see the Archivist levering himself up out of the chair with some caution. In case he needed the extra support, the ringmaster came over and held out an arm in offering, only to go soundly ignored.</p><p> </p><p>Probably for the best. He was still plenty sore from earlier.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist grimaced as he settled upright, then looked back to the chair. With a cautious move he lifted one foot and placed it on the seat, then leaned forward. The stretch made him grimace again, but he kept at it for another moment. </p><p> </p><p>As he dropped that foot back to the ground and lifted the other with a clumsy shift, the ringmaster kept at the ready. A good thing he did — the Archivist stretched his other leg, but his foot caught on the front of the chair when he attempted to disengage, and he stumbled. Only his sudden grip on the ringmaster’s forearm kept him from falling over.</p><p> </p><p>Sharp-eyed as ever, the Archivist noticed when, as he winced, the ringmaster did the same in odd harmony. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you… alright?” His voice sounded strange. Hesitant, like he wasn’t even sure it was the right question to ask. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster gave him his best smile. “Always! Just a long day, nothing you need to worry about.” </p><p> </p><p>The show earlier had a bigger audience than he’d worried it might, and the story about him finding crowds for the <em> true </em>show helped his case. It didn’t solve everything, of course, but he hadn’t expected it to. </p><p> </p><p>So yes, he was tired and sore and wanted to just lie down for a bit, but it all ended as well as he could hope. The contortionist had even sat with him and let him lean against her for a long while after. She’d brushed her fingers through his hair and told stories he couldn’t quite follow, and gave sharp little taps when he started to drift off too much. Another one of their routines — he was sure he wouldn’t have made it this far without that bit of comfort. </p><p> </p><p>He still hadn’t told her about T— About the man he’d met up with. Not that they’d met, nor that they were planning to meet again. </p><p> </p><p>There was no denying that guilt was part of the reason he remained tight-lipped, but it was more than that. Meeting people, talking to them, that was his job, but<em> names? </em>Not to mention that the one he met was from before the troupe, before his purpose. He couldn’t keep in denial: that was bad. Very bad. The less she knew, the safer she was. </p><p> </p><p>Keeping the Archivist in the dark was important for the same reason, but it got tricky when he insisted on asking so many <em> questions. </em></p><p> </p><p>“So,” the Archivist began once he was steadied on his own two feet again. “How long have you been ringmaster, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster looked over as he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to shake off the ache. “Couldn’t tell you! It’s hard to keep track of little things like that from show to show.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have a— an estimate?” There was a strange resonance to the words now. “How many years have you been here?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster didn’t realize he knew the answer until he heard himself say, “About four, I think.” He blinked in surprise, then sent the Archivist a chastising smile. “That wasn’t a very nice trick, Archivist.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist was far too busy muttering to himself to notice. “That’s about when he… And I never could figure out why…”</p><p> </p><p>“Archivist?”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s head snapped up again. “I— Yes, I’m— I’m sorry, I just wanted to understand.” His face went tight with a wary sort of fear. “Are you going to tell Nikola?” </p><p> </p><p>With a sigh, the ringmaster ran a hand through his hair. Still a little sweaty — not very pleasant. “Considering that’d mean telling her I never keep you gagged when I’m on watch, no.”</p><p> </p><p>It was so slight the ringmaster almost missed it, but a bit of tension went out of the Archivist’s shoulders. “Well… thank you, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” He leaned against the wall. “What did you say, just now? After I said how long I’ve been here.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist blinked at him, eyes wide. “I— I don’t know what you mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Something about, <em> when he. </em> Does <em> he </em>mean the man you said I look like?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t… think I should tell you that.” </p><p> </p><p>Tantamount to a yes, but the ringmaster could’ve put that together himself regardless. “I should thank you, now that I think about it. I got to talk to him a couple days ago.” Probably a couple days, anyway. He would go back to that door soon — whenever felt like <em> tomorrow </em>worked as well as anything. </p><p> </p><p>“Talk to him?” the Archivist repeated with no shortage of alarm. “Did you bring him here too?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shook his head. “I did think about it while I was looking, but no. We just… talked.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did he recognize you?” No added resonance this time, but the same kind of searching look he had when he asked all his other leading questions.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, he did. I shouldn’t talk about it too much,” the ringmaster added as he shot the Archivist with a wink and a smile. The smile didn’t last. “But he did.” </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist looked a bit lost. “Good, that— that’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>Why was the ringmaster trusting him so openly with this? Was it because he could tug out whatever information he wanted, so might as well make it easier for both of them? Was it because the Archivist was the one who guided him to T— the man, and should know that the ringmaster hadn’t wasted the information? Was it simply because there was no one the Archivist would reasonably sell him out to, even if another member of the troupe bothered to take off his gag? </p><p> </p><p>Was it because the man the ringmaster met seemed to, however begrudgingly, care about the Archivist? </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, it all came to the same conclusion.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster took a moment to listen hard for anyone that might be just outside the door, but he could hear only music. It would be easy to lose himself in the melody. Comforting. If he listened with everything in him, maybe things would go back to normal. </p><p> </p><p>But no. No, he made a promise, and he would keep it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to see him again soon.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist looked up from where he was pacing. Keeping up his mobility where he could, looked like. Smart. “You are?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He asked me to come back, and said if I didn’t he’d come find me. That probably goes double now since I told him you’re here.”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t know?” The Archivist sounded more puzzled than anything else, but there was no missing the clear apprehension alongside.</p><p> </p><p>“No, he had no idea,” he replied. “It sounded like he blamed whoever’s been getting the tapes for that.” </p><p> </p><p>With no small amount of bitter resignation, the Archivist muttered, “Elias. Of course. Does no one…?” He returned his focus to the ringmaster. “So you’re going to see him again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you don’t intend to bring him here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not unless he wants me to.” </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster didn’t need the Archivist’s raised brows to know how unlikely that was, but a small chance was still a chance. Best to be prepared for multiple outcomes. </p><p> </p><p>“Would…” The Archivist visibly second-guessed whatever he planned to say, but continued after a moment. “Would you be willing to tell him something for me?”</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t, but by now he was breaking so many rules it was laughable. Something about the man he met with made him disobedient to a near-suicidal degree. He shouldn’t deliver any message, and he shouldn’t go back to that waiting door.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t. He would. Maybe talking again would help him understand why he could so easily take these rules he lived by and throw them out the window.</p><p> </p><p>As he thought, the Archivist grew nervous. His eyes flicked around the room like a rabbit about to bolt, but with nowhere to go.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster let out a short sigh. “Um, depending on what it is, alright.”</p><p> </p><p>Anxious eyes settled once more on him, the Archivist nodded. “Thank you. Tell him… Tell him that I’m assigning him extended followup on case number 0132306 and its connection to some offsite waxwork production. I’d do it myself, but I’m still a bit tied up in my current museum investigation.”</p><p> </p><p>“So,” the ringmaster clarified after a pause. “This very important message is just… assigning him work?”</p><p> </p><p>“The job never sleeps. I’m sure you understand.” The Archivist leveled him with another hard, nervous look. “You <em> will </em>tell him?”</p><p> </p><p>With a nod, the ringmaster said, “Sure, yeah. I don’t know how happy he’ll be to hear it, but I’ll tell him.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist didn’t reply to that, but another degree of tension dropped from his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>After handing off another bottle of water and letting himself drift until it was empty, the ringmaster pushed off the wall. </p><p> </p><p>“I need to be off, then. Message to deliver and all!”</p><p> </p><p>Nikola had decided a round-the-clock watch wasn’t necessary anymore, but if the ringmaster took too long with what was supposed to be nothing more than a routine water break, someone might come check on them. He wasn’t eager to be found with the Archivist unbound and without the gag for nothing more than its own sake. There were no rules against that, but only because it was assumed that they all knew better.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster <em> should </em>know better. Apparently, he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.</p><p> </p><p>When the ringmaster reaffixed his bonds, the Archivist made no fuss. Small blessings. Just before leaving, he turned back and said, “Case number 0133206, right?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist rapped on the arm of his chair with one hand, then used his fingers to spell out, <em> 0… 1… 3… 2… 3… 0… 6. </em></p><p> </p><p>“0132306, got it.” The ringmaster smiled at him one last time. “I’ll let you know if he says anything back when I can!”</p><p> </p><p>With that, he left, and let himself get swept away by the sensible nonsense of his troupe once more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster had expected to have more trouble finding that old door again, but it looked like luck was in his favor. The man— <em> Tim, </em>Tim wasn’t waiting outside so, after a moment to check both ways as if the ringmaster had any idea what he even expected to see, he knocked. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as his knuckles made contact with the burnished steel it flew open to show Tim, exuding pure relief. He pulled the ringmaster into yet another hug that the ringmaster gladly — if awkwardly — returned, then pulled away with one hand still on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” It sounded like Tim was only asking out of courtesy, already doing his own full-body scan to ensure the ringmaster was undamaged. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Tim only looked at him with a strange expression — one part wonder, one part happiness, three parts something the ringmaster couldn’t name. It wasn’t too surprising; he imagined that four years apart must feel like a long time if you were aware of each and every day’s passage.</p><p> </p><p>It was only when he followed Tim through the door that he realized it led nowhere he expected. It wasn’t some backdoor to an office, or the entrance to an upper floor. No, they stood in tunnels — old grey stone, stretching both left and right and branching into crossroads at either end.</p><p> </p><p>As he glanced around with some confusion, Tim gathered his things. A couple books, it looked like, and a pillow, all shoved into a black backpack. Finally, he grabbed a thermos that the ringmaster assumed was full of coffee and turned back.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster spoke first. “I don’t want to forget, so before anything else: the Archivist had something he wanted to tell you. I’m not sure how much you’ll like hearing it, but he was insistent.”</p><p> </p><p>With clear apprehension, Tim gestured for him to continue. </p><p> </p><p>“He said he’s assigning you some extended followup on case, um, 013… 2306, and something about a connection to waxworks? Apparently he’s still <em>tied up in his museum investigation,</em> he said.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim stared at the ringmaster for a long moment before rubbing his temples with a hand. </p><p> </p><p>“How hard is, <em> Hey, Tim, I’m at a wax museum! </em>Jesus.” </p><p> </p><p>When put like that, the ringmaster felt a little ridiculous having not figured it out himself. A wax museum, then? He didn’t much register the waxworks themselves as anything but part of the show, and with so many walls knocked in throughout the building, he couldn’t imagine it looked like whatever museum once filled the space.</p><p> </p><p>“I honestly just thought he was assigning you more work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not like that would be out of the question for him. Before we go—” Tim pulled a black leather wallet from one pocket and flipped it open, then tugged out a slip of paper and handed it to the ringmaster.</p><p> </p><p>It was a picture of them, together. The ringmaster couldn’t place how old it was. Tim’s hair wasn’t quite so long, and he had none of the strange scars he carried now. The ringmaster wore rectangular glasses. They stood on top of what looked like a cliff, both wearing bulky packs and wide grins. </p><p> </p><p>He could feel Tim studying his face as he looked at the picture. Though he had no memory of whatever they did before taking this, or when it was taken at all, he couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t his usual smile — this was smaller. Quieter. More genuine? </p><p> </p><p>No, that would mean his usual smile was ingenuine. It was just… different.</p><p> </p><p>After a pause, Tim spoke up again. “I know your memory’s shaky, so… We know each other because—”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re brothers. Right?”</p><p> </p><p>“You remembered?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster nodded. “While we talked last time, it came back. You’re… older?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Tim replied as he returned the picture to its place in his wallet. “By about two and a half years.” </p><p> </p><p>“Which would make me…?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim made a valiant effort at hiding it, but the ringmaster could see a quick flash of something pained. “Thirty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Right, okay. Also, um… Where the hell are we?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim snorted as he shifted the pack over his shoulders. “Welcome to my office.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Alright, I may be short some memories, but I do know this isn’t an office,” the ringmaster said with a brow raised as he followed Tim through the strange corridor. “Pretty sure most offices are, y’know, lit.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim elbowed him, sending his torchlight scattering across the stone. “Terribly sorry I’m not able to meet your exacting standards, D—”</p><p> </p><p>The cut-off name fell like a fire curtain between them, and filled the ringmaster with the strange urge to bolt. He swallowed it down as best he could. He came this far; no running now.</p><p> </p><p>Not yet, anyway. He had to leave his options open.</p><p> </p><p>A touch to the wrist made his arms snap to his sides with a sharp inhale. When his eyes flicked over for the briefest second before falling back to forward attention, he caught a glimpse of Tim with wide eyes and the offending hand pulled back like he’d been burned. </p><p> </p><p>They walked in silence, the ringmaster with military precision as his heart rate slowly dropped away from cardiac arrest territory.</p><p> </p><p>Tim broke first. “Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>His mouth still felt wired shut, but the ringmaster scraped together a single nod. </p><p> </p><p>The tunnels they walked tangled together with no rhyme or reason, and their nonsense soothed in its own way. Gone was the measured brick to make way for something more industrial, with steel beams equidistant across the smooth face of that same grey stone. One offshoot tunnel looked like an old, rickety mineshaft; another, like it was pulled from the heart of an untouched cave.</p><p> </p><p>How Tim could navigate, the ringmaster had no idea. Maybe he had some kind of internal compass. Maybe navigating the nonsensical was just a family trait. Without any other blood relation there to make some serendipitous appearance, there was no telling. </p><p> </p><p>By the time they reached a door, the ringmaster felt something close to normal again. Tim paused before turning the handle. </p><p> </p><p>“You alright coming to work with me? I think they might be able to help with,” he gestured vaguely, “all <em> this.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s head tilted. “They will? Don’t you work in…” He snapped a few times. The sound reverberated against the tunnel walls in all the ways it shouldn’t. “Something with books, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Publishing, yeah, but… Not anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim opened the door, and the ringmaster froze where he stood.</p><p> </p><p>He should have expected this, of course. It was stupid not to. He knew his brother was close in some kind of way to the <em> Archivist, </em> and he’d begun his search around this place. Maybe part of him had thought that, because he never saw Tim leaving <em> here, </em>he wasn’t connected to it. Maybe he hadn’t thought at all.</p><p> </p><p>When the ringmaster didn’t move, Tim glanced over to him. “Everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I shouldn’t go in there.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the— the <em> Eye’s </em>temple, I can’t be there.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim grimaced. “Trust me, I don’t like it here either. That’s why I use the tunnels rather than the front entrance.” He shut the door to face the ringmaster. “I’ll be with you the whole time, alright, and if you need to get out for a bit, just shout. We can pop down here — I don’t know why, but the Eye can’t see in the tunnels. Sound good?” </p><p> </p><p>After a deep breath, the ringmaster nodded and let Tim lead him inside. </p><p> </p><p>The door that shut behind them looked more like the entrance to a broom closet than a gateway to any secret, nefarious tunnels. At the ringmaster’s quizzical look, Tim held up a key.</p><p> </p><p>“We found one trapdoor down there about a year ago, and there’s a few others in the building. I snagged Jon’s key to get myself a copy.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Just a normal part of the job here? Mystery tunnels?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim rolled his eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. C’mon, this way.”</p><p> </p><p>As they walked, the ringmaster noticed how passersby seemed to go out of their way to avoid looking at Tim. The ringmaster himself got a few double-takes, but those didn’t last once they saw whose company he was in. </p><p> </p><p>“I see someone’s popular ‘round the office,” he muttered to Tim — louder than he might to someone else. It wasn't until he noticed the hearing aid that made some level of sense. Speaking up was just... habit. The ringmaster wasn't sure how to feel about that.</p><p> </p><p>“Damn, I knew I should have brought all of my popularity contest trophies when I came to pick you up.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Pick you up, </em>like they were about to walk home from school together. Something about that felt… nostalgic, maybe? Hard to pin down.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, no,” he replied instead of dwelling. “It’s written all over everyone’s faces as they avoid eye contact.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim looked completely unbothered by the observation beyond a slight darkening to his features. “They don’t need eye contact to hear me say they should <em> quit this damn job while they can.” </em>He raised his voice by a degree proclaiming that, then lowered again. “Live a few years longer then, maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster didn’t know quite how to take that. Neither, it seemed, did the handful of interns that skittered past like nervous birds. There was little time to think about it when, one set of stairs down later, they stopped at another door. </p><p> </p><p>Tim glanced over at him before opening it. “We’re gonna be meeting a few people. You okay with that?”</p><p> </p><p>Oh. Asking. Unsure what else to do, the ringmaster nodded.</p><p> </p><p>At a desk across from the door sat the man the ringmaster had first thought might be who the Archivist meant looked like him. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall. Built of round shapes, though, and when he looked up to see who came in, his eyes went just as round.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Tim!” he said. “Do you have that copy of <em> Marvellous Spiritualism and the Circus in the 19th Century? </em> Tom said you had it checked out, and I…” The man blinked when he noticed the ringmaster, then hopped to his feet and bustled over with a brief scowl at Tim. “Sorry! I didn’t <em> realize </em>Tim brought someone with him.”</p><p> </p><p>He paused as if waiting for the ringmaster to reply, and when met with silence, pushed on a smile. Hand outstretched, he announced, “Martin Blackwood.”</p><p> </p><p>A moment of hesitation — too long if Martin’s face was anything to go by — then the ringmaster took the offered handshake and responded in kind.</p><p> </p><p>Martin waited a moment. “And your name is…?”</p><p> </p><p>Before he could say <em> What </em> or <em> The ringmaster </em> or <em> I don’t know, </em>Tim saved him.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wh— Complicated?” </p><p> </p><p>“S’what I said, yeah. Are Basira and Melanie around? Murder cop too, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite obvious confusion, Martin thought for a moment. “Yeah, I— I think so. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you bring them down here? No idea where they are myself, and I don’t want to drag my brother all over the damn Institute.” The edge dropped from Tim’s voice. “They should probably hear this.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin startled like Tim had shouted an expletive. “Your brother? But I thought he—”</p><p> </p><p>“Martin.”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever Martin heard in Tim’s voice, it was enough to pull his eyes away from staring at the ringmaster. “Right, um— Right. Just a second, then…?”</p><p> </p><p>The door latched shut once more with a click, and they were alone.</p><p> </p><p>After a beat, Tim staring a hole in the floor, the ringmaster spoke up. “Why did he act like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, all surprised?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“When you work with someone long enough, sometimes the tragic backstory pops out.” His words turned prickly with barbed-wire nostalgia. “Just the fun family trauma, nothing supernatural, but still. Since I thought you were dead, you came up once or twice. Not much.”</p><p> </p><p>It was strange, knowing that while the ringmaster was off finding his purpose, others mourned that discovery. Nothing to be done about others’ perceptions, he supposed. “You didn’t sound too thrilled to talk to him, or to those other people you mentioned.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim sighed. “Martin’s… complicated. The others, I don’t know very well.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster could’ve sworn that, in the bits of whatever history he once held, Tim was a people person. Not an <em> it’s </em> <em> complicated </em> person. Not an <em> I don’t know them well </em>person. </p><p> </p><p>“So… why are we here, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t— Stuff’s happened around here. I don’t know if any of them are who they say they are.” Tim rolled his neck forward and around as if it might shake off any of the visible tension in his shoulders. “But Jon’s still Jon. Might want to knock his teeth in more often than not these days, but I know he’s not <em> replaced, </em> or whatever. I’m not gonna let him get skinned by g-ddamn <em> clowns, </em>and I don’t like our chances if it’s just us.”</p><p> </p><p>A lot to puzzle through there, and not much that made sense. Somewhere to start, then: </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think it’d be any of the clowns that skinned him.”</p><p> </p><p>“That,” Tim said after a long pause. “Is just about as far from the point as I think you could feasibly get.”</p><p> </p><p>Well. To each their own. </p><p> </p><p>Another fragment of thought surfaced. “What do you mean, replaced?” </p><p> </p><p>Tim shook his head, something raw in his eyes. “Later.”</p><p> </p><p>With this, at least, the ringmaster knew better than to push. Not with that look on Tim’s face. </p><p> </p><p>Creaking hinges interrupted their silence, and in came Martin with the three women the ringmaster had thought were also in the Eye’s focus back when he was getting a lay of the land. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s back was to the wall. It wouldn’t normally be an issue, but with the way the wolfteeth one’s eyes zeroed in on him, the room felt far more like a cage than a shelter.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Martin said. “The gang’s all here. Did you just want to… to introduce your brother to everyone?”</p><p> </p><p>The black-curled, sharp-edged one already had half an irritated sigh out of her mouth when Tim answered, “No. I mean, partially, but only because he’s tied up in all this.” He looked over to the ringmaster. “You alright, still?”</p><p> </p><p>Nod. As apprehensive as he was, as wrong as being here felt, he couldn’t deny simple curiosity. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim paused to gather his thoughts, Martin reached over and fussed with something on the desk — a tape recorder. Tim shot it a dark look.</p><p> </p><p>“Turn that off.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s shoulders rounded in what the ringmaster could tell was meant to be appeasement. “I just think Jon will want to hear—”</p><p> </p><p>“Pretty sure he already knows.” He looked at the ringmaster. “Right?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s why I knew to come here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s he run off to, then?” the hijabi woman asked. </p><p> </p><p>Before Tim could answer, Martin added, “And what does Da—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “No names.” </em>Tim snapped. “Not for him, not right now.” He turned back to where the ringmaster stood with every muscle tense and poised. “You good?”</p><p> </p><p>A nod. A gesture to get all this over with, so he could maybe understand why he’d bothered to come back at all. He’d wanted to see his brother, not get pulled into whatever the hell this all was. </p><p> </p><p>He let himself drift, then, in hopes that’d bring his head somewhere in the neighborhood of level. It wasn’t a perfect solution without lights to lose himself in or notes to carry him along, but he made it work. Tim’s voice was no melody. Despite that, it was there and consistent and something the ringmaster could fall against. Some names he recognized, and they threatened to pull away his fog. He dug his heels into the blur. No need to listen right now. It had nothing to do with him, not at this moment. Someone would call his title when he was needed, and there were far too many minutes in the day to stay present for them all.</p><p> </p><p>So, he would drift. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim went quiet to make way for another sudden voice, the ringmaster jolted. Not visibly, but enough to leave him disorientated.</p><p> </p><p>“So you saw him get captured, saw him get skinned, or whatever it was.” It was the smaller woman, the one whose eyes screamed <em> predator. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Captured, yeah, but the rest— It was so far from reality, I don’t think—”</p><p> </p><p>“And then he just <em> happens </em>to show up again, right when we’re looking to destroy their whole Unknowing.”</p><p> </p><p>What? Destroy it, why would—? </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s retort cut through the ringmaster’s thoughts. “If they’re in the area, it makes sense that—” </p><p> </p><p>“That the skin you recognize would just serendipitously show up? Show up, then watch the Institute from across the street to know what he might be up against before making contact with the one most likely to let anything inhuman slide?”</p><p> </p><p>The hijabi woman sent her a sideways glance. “Daisy, I don’t think—”</p><p> </p><p>When Daisy pulled out a gun, those words vanished in immediate chaos. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster fell against the wall as Tim shoved him back without hesitation to put himself between the ringmaster and the cold steel barrel. </p><p> </p><p>Martin was shouting, the black-haired woman was shouting, the hijabi woman wasn’t quite shouting, but sounded well on her way.</p><p> </p><p>Both Tim and the woman with the gun were deadly silent. The ringmaster wasn’t sure he could make a sound at all. </p><p> </p><p>Despite the clamor, when Tim did speak — speak, not shout — it drowned all the rest with pure solidity. </p><p> </p><p>“If you want to kill him, you’ll have to kill me first.” </p><p> </p><p>Past Martin’s <em> I really don’t think that’s— </em> and the black-haired woman’s <em> Can we go one week without a bloody standoff— </em>the ringmaster could tell Daisy was truly considering it. </p><p> </p><p>If he caught that, there was no doubt Tim did the same. He didn’t falter. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, it was the one who first said Daisy’s name that took every tense cord in the room in hand and pulled it to heel. “Stop. Let’s get all the information here before pulling the judge, jury, and executioner act.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy’s aim never drifted. “S’my job now, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Getting the facts is still part of it.” </p><p> </p><p>The two of them spoke more in silence than words if the look they traded was anything to go by. Each moment felt infinite, but one eternity later Daisy dropped the marksman stance and tucked her gun back into its holster. </p><p> </p><p>Tim, it seemed, had no inclination to follow in losing the tension still holding him wound tight. Martin's eyes were wide behind his maroon glasses as they bounced between Daisy, Tim, the ringmaster, around and around and around. </p><p> </p><p>“So.” The black-haired woman let out a long, rough sigh as she ran a hand through her curls. “What was, y’know, the <em> point </em>of all this?” </p><p> </p><p>“Thought we might appreciate someone with a bit more information, not try and <em> shoot </em>him,” Tim gritted out.</p><p> </p><p>Still with an impressive level of composure, the hijabi woman looked at Tim. “Can we talk in the hall?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you think I’m leaving him alone in here with murder cop, you’ve lost your g-ddamn mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy’s face didn’t change as she took her gun from its holster and handed it off to the other woman, then leaned against the wall with eyes locked on the ringmaster.</p><p> </p><p>It was no less a threat — Daisy wouldn’t have given up her gun if she didn’t think she could just as easily kill him without it.</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s stance dropped enough that he looked less ready to tackle her to the ground, but that by no means meant eagerness replaced it.</p><p> </p><p>Martin chose that moment to step in. “Well, your brother and I could probably stand to get to know each other some. You and Basira can talk, and he and I’ll just chat in here.” </p><p> </p><p>Though his jaw clenched, Tim looked to the ringmaster. “You gonna be okay with that?” </p><p> </p><p>What else could he do? At least one person in this room wanted him dead, and if he didn’t behave, she might decide to make that wish a reality. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Alright. I’ll be right outside, yeah? You need me, just shout.”</p><p> </p><p>As he left with the other woman — Basira? — he stopped next to Daisy with what the ringmaster could only assume was a heavy glare. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Don’t </em>try anything.” </p><p> </p><p>Daisy merely glanced at him once, then turned her focus back to where the ringmaster sat. </p><p> </p><p>“She won’t,” Basira said to fill Daisy’s pointed silence. “Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman whose name the ringmaster still hadn’t caught leaned against another desk as the archive door shut behind the other two. “It’s weird seeing Tim like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like what?” Martin asked as he grabbed that desk’s chair and tugged it over to where he’d sat when the ringmaster first came into the room.</p><p> </p><p>“All… I dunno, <em> careful.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Martin sighed as he settled at the desk and gestured for the ringmaster to take the other chair. “You didn’t know him before everything went bad around here but, that’s how he used to be all the time.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman snorted. “He needs some better coping mechanisms then. I mean, <em> you </em>didn’t turn into a complete dick.”</p><p> </p><p>“I also didn’t get eaten by worms or have my house staked out.” The sudden sharpness to his voice caught the ringmaster off guard; Martin seemed so earnest and anxious not minutes before. “You weren’t here, so <em> maybe </em>have some basic sympathy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, Jesus,” she conceded with hands up. Another breath, and she pushed off the desk to join the others in the hall. Unlike Basira before her, she didn’t fully shut the door, and the ringmaster was able to catch some of the conversation just outside. </p><p> </p><p>Tim was a lot of things. Quiet was not one of them. Hard to be with formative years spent struggling to hear his own voice.</p><p> </p><p>“—not a complete idiot, of course I thought it might be some fake pretending to be him. Treated him like a fake for a good couple minutes before we talked.”</p><p> </p><p>Muffled words, then:</p><p> </p><p>“Look, it’s easy for you to act like it’s just wishful thinking, but you didn’t see his face when he asked me if my name really was Tim.” </p><p> </p><p>The woman who just joined them was no quieter than Tim. “He didn’t know your name for certain, but you still think it’s him?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s <em> why </em>I do. If this was all some, I don’t know, long con or honeypot trap or whatever, it’d make a lot more sense for him to be exactly the same, memories and all. He’s not.”</p><p> </p><p>He… wasn’t the same? Where? How? Ultimately it made sense, and meant he was doing well in his role as ringmaster, but hearing someone else put it into words felt strange. </p><p> </p><p>With that somewhat-gratifying somewhat-disconcerting revelation he turned back to Martin, ready to be told off in some way for listening in only to see Martin busy with the very same thing. When Martin noticed the ringmaster watching him, he flushed.</p><p> </p><p>“S-sorry! Just, thin walls around here, and all.” </p><p> </p><p>Against one said wall, the ringmaster heard Daisy snort. Martin seemed to be ignoring her as best he could, and the ringmaster was inclined to follow his lead.</p><p> </p><p>“So, um…” Martin hesitated. “While we wait for them to finish all that, I thought maybe we could decide something else to call you around here, since names are off the table.” </p><p> </p><p>At least he wasn’t trying to push that issue. The ringmaster nodded, and earned a polite smile in return. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Martin began. “What do people normally call you?”</p><p> </p><p>“The ringmaster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just— Just that?”</p><p> </p><p>Nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing… shorter?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, just… the ringmaster.” Role names must work differently here — but, no, the Archivist came from this place, and his was no more succinct. Far less pleasant to say, besides. </p><p> </p><p>“Right, well,” Martin said with a bracing nod. “It’s a place to start, then!” </p><p> </p><p>For how enthusiastic he sounded, the ringmaster assumed he would have an option or two right out of the gate. No, instead they sat in awkward silence for a long moment. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe… um… Ring… Ringo!”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster turned to look at Martin, flat. No expression could get across just how awful that was.</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s brows went up. “Or… we could not use that!” </p><p> </p><p>More quiet as Martin muttered syllables to himself and the ringmaster waited with silent dread. He wanted to believe there could be nothing worse than <em> Ringo, </em>he really did. </p><p> </p><p>“Mister—”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you’re going to say, it’s already a no. I don’t even think that’d be shorter than ringmaster.”</p><p> </p><p>To the ringmaster’s faint surprise, Martin looked unbothered by a second rejection. “Well, I’m not about to call you ringmaster, so we’ll just have to find something.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not? It’s my role, you may as well use it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but it’s not who you <em> are, </em> is it? It’s just a— a job.” Though Martin stumbled before settling on <em> job, </em> he sounded only thoughtful. Patient. “Not <em> you.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster considered that a moment. “I don’t know if there’s a difference for some people. I mean, the Archivist is just… that. The Archivist. Him, his role, they’re the same thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, around here we call him Jon, not the archivist.” Patient, patient, patient. “So if you’re alright with it, I think it’d be good for all of us to call you something else.”</p><p> </p><p>“You mean, like a different role? That won’t really work until I figure out whatever I’m meant to do around here.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin did his best to hide a grimace, but he wasn’t exactly a stoic individual from what the ringmaster gathered. </p><p> </p><p>“Not quite, just— Something to identify you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You could always use Dandelion.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster turned to see Tim and the others reenter the room. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the nickname made him scowl.</p><p> </p><p>Tim grinned at the ringmaster’s clear distaste. “Oh, c’mon, you <em> loved </em>being called that.” </p><p> </p><p>“Look, I don’t remember you calling me that directly, but I think this is muscle memory. I hate— <em> Hey!” </em></p><p> </p><p>There was no getting out his full complaint once Tim got close enough to knock against his side and aggressively ruffle his hair. “Sorry, didn’t catch that one, Dandelion — you hate <em> what?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Before the ringmaster could do anything but bat his hands at his brother in some futile attempt to detangle himself, Basira interrupted. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, before we go further, do you have any proof you’re still… human? Not one of the skin-over-stuffing things or something like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Any of the good humor Tim picked up while roughhousing with the ringmaster vanished. “Can you lay off him a minute? He— look, he has the same scar on his mouth from when we were kids — if they fully changed him over to something else, wouldn’t they have smoothed that out? Hell, it looks a little bigger, not smaller.”</p><p> </p><p>“It also looks like cracks, not scar tissue. That’s pretty far from human.” </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster lifted one hand to his mouth. He was plenty aware of the small, dark line through one side that branched in a few spiderwebbed offshoots on the bottom, but he hadn’t thought about it much. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist called it charming. Tim said it was normal, same as when they were kids. Basira decided it was inhuman. </p><p> </p><p>He could only wonder how they would see his other scars. Those, he knew, looked like proper scars, not cracks. Maybe they would be enough to satisfy. </p><p> </p><p>Without a word, he stood up. There was no way to ignore the way Daisy zeroed in on him once more, ready to pounce as soon as he gave her a good excuse. Hopefully taking off his jacket wouldn’t count as one.</p><p> </p><p>Jacket off and tossed onto his empty chair, he turned back to Tim and Basira and held out his arms, forearms up. Basira only looked thoughtful, but the choked noise Tim made sounded like someone had just kicked him in the chest. </p><p> </p><p>Twin scars, thick and shiny pink, ran in vertical lines up from the wrists, then curved around with his elbow to follow up his underarms. After letting Basira study them, he dropped them to take the front hem of his shirt and tug it upwards. A matching scar followed from his beltline to the top of his breastbone, where it split into a T shape to join with those on his arms. At the top it lost its uniformity and instead looked strangely blurred. Pulled at.</p><p> </p><p>“They started to go through that whole process.” The words felt flat in his mouth. Stale. “So I asked what I had to do for them to stop.” </p><p> </p><p>Numb silence came with the ringmaster’s explanation, until the third woman leaned forward. </p><p> </p><p>“What are those… black bits?”</p><p> </p><p>“Melanie,” Martin hissed. “That’s really not any of our—”</p><p> </p><p>“Stitches, right?” Daisy said from her place against the wall. “That never got taken out.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira’s brow furrowed. “It’s been four years, they should have dissolved by now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think they’re medical-grade,” the ringmaster explained as he let his shirt fall back. “Just… thread.” </p><p> </p><p>Before the ringmaster could decide whether or not to roll up his trousers to show the very same scars along the inside of each leg, Tim pulled him into a tight hug. </p><p> </p><p>“G-d, I— I’m sorry I left, I’m so sorry, I—” His words twisted into strangled quiet, and the ringmaster let himself stay there and breathe. Just breathe. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim pulled back, the ringmaster’s skin itched at the loss of pressure against it, but he shoved that out of his mind. It didn’t matter. </p><p> </p><p>Tim took a steadying breath, and when Martin put a hand on his shoulder he let it stay there for a few seconds before shrugging it off. </p><p> </p><p>“So is that enough for you, Basira? Daisy?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira glanced at Daisy, and they had another one of their brief, silent conversations before Daisy gave a short nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Basira said. </p><p> </p><p>“Peachy.” Tim’s voice was dry. “Then let’s get to why I brought him here. Like he said earlier, the only reason he knew to come find me is because—”</p><p> </p><p>“Knock, knock?”</p><p> </p><p>Every head in the room swiveled to the door to see an older man with a sharp grey suit and sharper grey eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, I was hoping to find you here, Tim.” The man sounded perfectly cordial, but something about him made the ringmaster’s skin crawl. “Do you mind coming with me to my office?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s eyes narrowed with a pointed smile. “Sorry, boss! Did <em> you </em>want the honors of letting them all know that the Stranger’s lot kidnapped Jon, or were you going to keep sitting on that one alone in your weird spooky tower?”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s lips pursed, but Martin’s sputtering drowned out whatever reply he might’ve had. </p><p> </p><p>“S-sorry, <em> kidnapped?!” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and apparently the one who did it has been recording tapes and sending them our way.” Tim didn’t look away from the new arrival. “But Elias here decided we didn’t need to know that the circus is holding him captive to skin him at some point.”</p><p> </p><p>Around Melanie’s hiss of <em> Jesus, </em>Elias said, “I rather thought getting all of you so excited without any true information would only lead to a decrease in work quality, not any help for him.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim let out a short, sardonic laugh. “Sure. No thanks to you, we know he’s at a wax museum. Not sure which one, but it’s more than nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira’s brows were high on her face as she attempted to process the trainwreck before her,  but she recovered enough to add, “It’d have to be a closed one if the circus took over the place. They’ve run front businesses before, but if it’s their base of operations that’d be a lot more trouble than it’s worth.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie looked to the ringmaster. “Do you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— No, I— I didn’t even know it was a wax museum until Tim said so when I told him what the Archivist said.” </p><p> </p><p>“...How do you not know you’re in a wax museum? They’re not exactly subtle.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster could only shrug. “On the inside, with the whole troupe in motion, sometimes it doesn’t look like a <em> building.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Basira’s head tilted. “What <em> does </em>it look like?”</p><p> </p><p>He took a moment to think. What could he possibly use to describe brightlight colorspin melodic motion? What words fit beyond a flash here, a spark there? </p><p> </p><p>“Impressionist,” he decided.</p><p> </p><p>“And as fascinating as that is,” Elias said from the door. “You’re still no closer to finding the Archivist. As I had already intended, I will let you all know if I get information more concrete than a 19th-century art movement.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you can’t just <em> see </em>him with your scary magic eyes?” Tim challenged. </p><p> </p><p>“The Stranger and the Eye are antithetical.” Elias spoke just a bit too slow, like he was explaining to a child. “So locating him inside its influence is far more difficult. As I said, once I have concrete information, we can reconvene on the matter. Now, Tim, if you can meet me in my office when you’re finished with this… <em> war council. </em>Feel free to bring your brother if you’d prefer to not leave him alone.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m actually good, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>Elias raised a brow. “I’m sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, no. No, don’t think I will.” Tim adopted a far-too-upbeat tone, one that the ringmaster knew he used when gladly trying to piss someone off. “If you want to tell me something, you can do it here or not at all.”</p><p> </p><p>With a measured sigh, Elias began, “Tim, I don’t want to have to—”</p><p> </p><p>“Fire me? Heaven forbid.”</p><p> </p><p>From across the room, the ringmaster heard Melanie snort. Martin looked equal parts anxious and deeply exasperated. </p><p> </p><p>“No, I much prefer working with my employees to try and mend whatever behavioral issues they may have.” Level as ever, but something in Elias’s pleasant smile made the ringmaster’s blood run cold. “But until you let me help, I’m afraid I can’t do much — for you <em> or </em>Jon. When you’re finished with the tantrum, feel free to let me know.”</p><p> </p><p>Elias turned to leave, then paused and looked the ringmaster in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>“It was lovely to meet you, Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>Seven words, and everything went inside-out upside-down<em> wrong. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Danny. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hands tight over his ears as if it could save him. Back to the wall. No escape, not now not ever.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Danny Stoker. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shirt dragged against the wall as he slid down in what was more crumple than anything with grace.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Daniel g-ddamn Stoker. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have come here, this place of Seeing and Beholding and Knowing what should not, not ever, be known.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Danny. Dan. Daniel. Dandelion. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>If he could reach into his own head and pull out those hateful letters so thoroughly they could never take root again, he would. He would, he would, he promised he would.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That name wasn’t him. If he shouted his rejection, maybe they would let him breathe. Worth trying. Anything was. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What is your name?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I don't know.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He was trying, he was trying his best, he was, he was.</p><p> </p><p><em>I know you are,</em> the contortionist said with those narrow black eyes he trusted more than anything. <em>I know, I know. I know. </em></p><p> </p><p>He waited for her to tell him to smile like she always did on these days of loud and hurt and no, no, no names.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is your name? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t have one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The hand that closed on his arm was warm, not cold. Much larger than hers. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes screwed shut, hot as waxmelt. Somewhere that same heartstrung melody played, and he nearly cried with relief. Music meant it was over. Music meant safe. </p><p> </p><p>His hands drifted down from their place locked against his head, and moments later they were taken in that larger, warmer grip. </p><p> </p><p>The first things he saw when he managed to open his eyes were the lines scored up his arms. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t over, then. It wasn’t. His limbs jerked in to curl against him because it wasn’t, because red twined up through his skin like ribbon and it wasn’t over. The music grew but now he knew it resonated from his chest as he hummed and it wasn’t real or safe or over.</p><p> </p><p>Past the humming that only grew louder rather than stop like he knew he should, he should, he should, a voice snapped out. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Martin, </em>his jacket!”</p><p> </p><p>More words he didn’t hear. More motion of things he didn’t know. More of different and wrong and he was so tired. </p><p> </p><p>The warm hand he’d tugged free of came to rest on his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got your jacket right here, okay? Can you put up your arms for me so we can cover those scars?” </p><p> </p><p>Arms up. He knew how to do that. Yes. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t the soft performer’s attire he expected. No, this was nothing more than cotton.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes opened once more. Gone was red ribbons or pink lines through brown, all covered with warm orange fabric. </p><p> </p><p>Deep breath. Another. Do not cry. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” He addressed the floor rather than any one person. “I didn’t mean to hear it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Lie. “I should be the one apologizing to you.” Lie. “He only did that because of me.” Lie.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s eyes flicked up for a fraction of a second to see the man who brought him here sitting on the floor across from him. </p><p> </p><p>He heard the man sit back by a bit. “I’m gonna kill that bastard, I swear to—”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim.” Another voice. Others were here. A show. “Not right now.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster couldn’t let himself feel the humiliation welling in his throat. This was as much a show as anything else, he knew that well, and he was nothing if not a performer.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced up for another split second, but there was only one other person there. The man standing by the desk might have tried for a smile, but the ringmaster didn’t let himself look long enough to know.</p><p> </p><p>“All the people here looked like they were upsetting you, so I asked them to give you some space. I would’ve left too, but Tim asked me to grab your jacket, so I figured I’d stick around in case you needed anything else.”</p><p> </p><p>He was upset by people? What sad excuse for a ringmaster was he?</p><p> </p><p>Again to the floor and with voice so hoarse it hurt, he said, “I should go back.” </p><p> </p><p>Quiet, then, “Alright, let’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“What, back?” The man at the desk interrupted. “You’re going to let him—”</p><p> </p><p>“What would you have me do, Martin?” said the first man as he stood, exhausted more than argumentative. “If he doesn’t go back, they’ll come looking, and Jon’s still there. They might figure out he knows something.” </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until the same voice said, “C’mon,” that the ringmaster looked up enough to see he was holding out a hand.</p><p> </p><p>Rather than take it, the ringmaster gathered his feet under him and pushed up against the wall, eyes still low. </p><p> </p><p>After a painful quiet, the second man said, “Well, I’m still glad to meet you, and I’ll… see you again soon, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>There was nothing the ringmaster could say to that. He didn’t bother to try.</p><p> </p><p>Drifting could only take him so far, and this time not even the twisting nonsense tunnels were enough to soothe. </p><p> </p><p>When they reached the door, the man— T— his brother looked over to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Does meeting here in three days work again?” </p><p> </p><p>Nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Got it. I’ll wait an extra day in case time gets all twisted up.” A pause. “I swear that won’t happen again — I’ll play nice with Elias, and he’ll back off some.” </p><p> </p><p>Nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Before you go, is…” His brother hesitated. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”</p><p> </p><p>If he did, the ringmaster wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave. He shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“...Alright, that’s— that’s fine. See you here in three days, then.” </p><p> </p><p>As he opened the door, the ringmaster finally looked high enough to meet his brother’s eyes. “See you then.”</p><p> </p><p>The walk home alone was, it seemed, the thing he needed to settle into himself once more. Back to where he should be.</p><p> </p><p>He was the ringmaster, and he smiled, smiled, smiled. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Step, step, spin. Impressionist blur. Music. Song, dance. Home. Safe. The show, and nothing but.</p><p> </p><p>If he put his all, more than his all, into every piece of the performance, maybe he would forget. Maybe he wouldn’t have this thing he <em> knew </em>he shouldn’t, that he’d put more than his all into getting rid of. </p><p> </p><p>If… if he told Nikola, she would help him. She would make it disappear again, and everything else along with it. The day, the words, the route he half-remembered to that door. He didn’t want it, he didn’t, he just wanted to be who he was. What he was.</p><p> </p><p>All he had to do was speak. He spoke plenty these days — hard to lead the crowd in their own part of the dance without his voice. He could, it would be easy. </p><p> </p><p>And yet. </p><p> </p><p>And yet, he would lose T— his— the man who first made all this crash together in the ringmaster’s head. He would lose all the scraps that felt like puzzle pieces, jigsaw fragments that he could feel rattle through his ribs. Some pieces had names. Some had faces. Some had nothing but sensation.</p><p> </p><p>Breathing hard at the top of a difficult climb. A hot mug in his hands, the taste of honey and whiskey. Leaping from warm air to ice-cold saltwater. Looking around for that single grin and thumbs up always ready and waiting should he seek it.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t finish this puzzle. The picture it formed was wrong. Manufacture error. To be sent back and replaced with new, with better, with purpose. </p><p> </p><p>Step, spin, catch, twirl. Blue eyes and security and safe, safe, safe. </p><p> </p><p>The music whistled through him and filled the jigsaw’s holes with something <em>more.</em> What image could compare to a song? What words could match the joy of dance? What was love, if not a joint performance?</p><p> </p><p>A grin, no words, not when the contortionist spoke the same lack of language. Twined around him, keeping him here and secure and together, not crumbled into jigsaw bits. Better. </p><p> </p><p>The music grew to its crescendo as they whirled, came face to face, and froze, breathless and voiceless and grinning. </p><p> </p><p>Applause made porcelain clicks as Nikola cheered for her troupe’s practice. “Absolutely gorgeous, as always!”</p><p> </p><p>She made her rounds, looking close at each one on the stage and giving them little notes, encouragement, and the like. She cared for her performers, always had. </p><p> </p><p>Her steps approached, and the ringmaster could feel cold sweat on his back. How could he possibly hide what he now knew from her? If she knew, she would help him, so he should tell her. He should. </p><p> </p><p>And yet.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, thread trapped by scar tissue burned and red ribbons made his chest grow tight. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t hide it from her, of course. Not when she knew her performer’s heads inside and out. Best way to mold a show into whatever needed — start with the core pieces. Gather supplies, craft them, shape them. Take sandpaper to the rough spots, a whetstone to hone them to a razor’s edge.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t hide that he knew his n— That he knew. </p><p> </p><p>He also couldn’t speak. Breathless. Voiceless. Not afraid, not when he smiled as he did. </p><p> </p><p>Her steps grew closer and the ringmaster desperately wished he could breathe. Every part of him wanted to reach out and take the contortionist’s hand, seek her cold, soothing comfort, but that would merely signal that there was something wrong. There wasn’t. Nothing was wrong. There were no unfinished puzzles here. Nothing but the show and the ringmaster and the dancer at the center of it all. </p><p> </p><p>When Nikola reached him, he felt those sharp, cold, safe fingers tap under his chin. </p><p> </p><p>“Head <em> up, </em>ringmaster — you know I don’t like repeating myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Head up. Smile. Meet her eyes and know she saw him and all his jigsaw bits and this was it, she would help him, she would hurt him, she would—</p><p> </p><p><em> “There’s </em>that pretty face. Lovely show, my dear.”</p><p> </p><p>And she was gone. </p><p> </p><p>If there was any sign she saw that he knew his— that he knew once again, he couldn’t tell.</p><p> </p><p>Did she… not know? </p><p> </p><p>How could she not? How could the leader of the troupe, the one who’d shaped him and shown him how far he could go, how could she not see such clear damage to all her work?</p><p> </p><p>He knew. She did not.</p><p> </p><p>There were words he should say. There were steps he should take. There were red ribbon letters he should wrench free from the root and let music fill the missing-tooth holes.</p><p> </p><p>He should. He wanted to. </p><p> </p><p>And yet. And yet.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: the usual terrible headspace Danny’s in, allusions to abuse, brief discussion of trauma bonds, description of scars (not anything to do with self-harm, but some do start at the wrist and move vertically up the forearm), depiction of a panic attack, non-graphic flashbacks to the very terrible parts of the circus, Elias being Like He Is, Nikola being Like She Is</p><p>basira: why the fuck did you do that<br/>elias: hey you know for sure he's human now right :-)</p><p>in the wings: an encore performance</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. THE TOWER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On trust, sabotage, and the lion's den.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WE HAVE ART!<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/649002051578249216/also-i-drew-some-pictures-of-ren-titanfallings">first off, this very sweet pair of sketches of danny with a cat -- it's what he deserves and we all know it</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368109672071168/emberglowfox-i-blasted-leave-my-body-on-loop">secondly, this INCREDIBLE cover art -- i s2g i stared at this one for a solid 15 minutes just marveling]</a></p><p>note the updated tags, as always specific warnings are in the endnote</p><p>suggested listening: grace for sale by terrance zdunitch</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If the ringmaster thought his brother opened the door quickly the first time he returned, it was nothing compared to now. As soon as his knuckles made contact, the metal flew open. </p><p> </p><p>Again, the same up and down scan. Rather than pull him into one of those immediate, tight embraces, he made sure to catch the ringmaster’s eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I hug you?”</p><p> </p><p>Nod. This time he didn’t need to immediately detangle himself and leave. He would have to later, of course, but for now he would let himself have this. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Tim pulled back, the itch under the ringmaster’s skin felt something close to sated. </p><p> </p><p>Tim looked him over yet again. “Are you alright? I know things went… pretty south, when you were here last. Did anything happen back there?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shook his head as he stepped into the tunnel and shut the door. He’d been prepared for any number of repercussions when he went back, and the absolute lack of a response was, he supposed, in Tim’s definition of okay. He wasn’t sure if it was in his own definition, but his wasn’t the one that mattered right now. </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t even know.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, that you heard your—”</p><p> </p><p>“Heard what Elias said, yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded as they began to make their way through the tunnels. “That makes sense. The Stranger doesn’t seem like one that’d give, I don’t know, mind-reading powers or something.”</p><p> </p><p>If that was the point, the ringmaster would be inclined to agree. It wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“But when you take something apart and put it back together, you understand all the pieces.” It wasn’t a matter of mind reading; it was that of understanding one’s tools. “You should notice when they don’t fit together right anymore, but she didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>When he glanced over, he saw that strange expression on Tim’s face — the one that he was beginning to realize meant he’d said something wrong. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim made an effort for neutrality. “No, it’s— it’s fine.” A pause. “So she doesn’t know. We’ll take it, then.” </p><p> </p><p>Their steps echoed on the tunnel walls as they walked. “I mean, I don’t <em> think </em>she does, but she still might, and just… hasn’t done anything about it yet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Does she usually sit on things like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but it’s hard to predict with her. She likes spontaneity.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nudged him with an elbow, slowly enough that the ringmaster saw it coming. “Good thing we’re not just going to sit around on our hands, then.”</p><p> </p><p>As they came into the building proper, the ringmaster sent him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got a complete bastard to keep un-skinned,” Tim replied. “There’s gonna be a new person with us today, some friend of Jon’s. Roommate, maybe? Melanie told her what happened, and apparently she wants in. Name’s Georgie, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>A memory with no detail or context hit the ringmaster — Tim, rattling off names, their skills, the people they knew from other parts of his job (publishing, yes? was that right?) The ringmaster remembered scrolling through what felt like an endless contacts list on a phone he could only assume was Tim’s, every so often tossing out a name and seeing what Tim could pull off the top of his head. This one was better to ask a favor in the morning, that one should be avoided in the morning at all costs. Her, she was the one to befriend if he ever got that promotion to literary scout, and who could talk about her pet snakes for hours; him, he was the one Tim had to be sure to look up sports scores before starting any conversation to make it sound like he also watched whichever game mattered at that moment.</p><p> </p><p>None got a <em> maybe. </em> None got an <em> I think.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Part of the ringmaster wondered if he was misremembering, or if time really brought so much change. It wasn’t as if he had room to talk. </p><p> </p><p>Piecing that together and trying to decide if it was at all real took the ringmaster up until they returned to the archive door. Before he opened it, Tim looked over to him. </p><p> </p><p>“You alright? You got quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s fine, I just— It’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>In the archives proper sat most of those the ringmaster met the first time: Martin, Basira, and Melanie. To his relief, Daisy was absent. In her stead was another woman with dark brown skin and darker braids half-twisted into a knot on the back of her head. </p><p> </p><p>Martin looked up when they came into the room. “Oh, hey! We were waiting for you guys before getting into things. This,” he continued as he gestured to the new woman, “is Georgie. Georgie, this is Tim and…”</p><p> </p><p>There was a moment of dead air, then Martin glanced back at the ringmaster. “Did we decide Dandelion was—”</p><p> </p><p>Before he could finish the question, the ringmaster froze where he stood with hands halfway to his ears. Tim’s own hand came to rest on his back, warm and solid, and Martin winced.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry! Not that, then.” He tried for a bracing smile. “We’ll think of something.”</p><p> </p><p>Another uncomfortable pause as the ringmaster dropped his hands again and nodded. He took one of the desk chairs, and Tim settled against the front of that desk in something between a sit and a lean.</p><p> </p><p>Basira cleared her throat. “Now that you guys are here, we need to decide how we’re going to handle Jon.” She looked at the ringmaster. “Do you know when the Unknowing is, for sure?”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “Whenever Nikola decides the Archivist is finished.” </p><p> </p><p>“Um, new one here.” Georgie lifted a hand from where she sat at one desk. “What do you mean by<em> finished?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“His skin’s in bad shape,” the ringmaster explained. “And once it’s better, that’s when it’ll kick off.”</p><p> </p><p>“His skin?”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie tapped her shoulder. “I’ll tell you later.”</p><p> </p><p>“Any guess?” Basira asked the ringmaster, ignoring the others.</p><p> </p><p>“Not really. I don’t know much about how all that works. I try to avoid it. A couple weeks, maybe?” </p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” Basira turned back to the group. “So we’ve got limited time. What’s the setup like?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shifted where he sat. “I already told you before that the place itself is hard to map.”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that he wanted the Archivist to die, or that he was happy about what had to happen for the Unknowing to succeed. Change necessitated sacrifice. That was simply how things worked. </p><p> </p><p>It would hurt, but so did anything worth doing. </p><p> </p><p>“Do we even know for sure <em> where </em>all this is happening, yet?” Melanie spoke up from where she was perched on Georgie’s claimed desk. “I mean, we have ‘closed wax museum’, but that’s not very specific.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin opened his laptop. “I looked around some, but the most likely one from what I could see isn’t exactly close.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where?” Tim asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Great Yarmouth.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s brows knit. “That’s a few hours drive, that doesn’t make much sense with him getting here every few days.” He looked to the ringmaster. “Unless you drive, anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shook his head. “No, I walk.”</p><p> </p><p>“So we need a closed wax museum within walking distance?” Melanie asked with heavy disbelief. “That just goes from too many possibilities to none.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think…” Basira trailed off, then pinned the ringmaster in place with narrow eyes. “You said you walk here, yeah, but the Stranger messes with reality. I don’t know if we can assume the way he— Tim’s brother— Jesus, you need a name.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster went stiff. “You’re not using that.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not your actual name, just… something,” Basira amended.</p><p> </p><p>Martin sat up at his own desk, and the ringmaster cut him a dry look. “Not Ringo.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim snorted. <em> “Ringo?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Well, if you have something better,” Martin grumbled. “I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.”</p><p> </p><p>To the ringmaster’s surprise, it was Georgie who offered an answer. “You could use Leo, maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Leo?” Tim asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I know the name Martin used when you first got here isn’t going to work, but the second half of it made me think of that.” She smiled at the ringmaster. “A good friend of mine has the same name, but I don’t think she’d mind sharing.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim turned to check his reaction. “Is that alright with you?’</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster took a moment to think. It felt strange, no doubt, and wasn’t any actual role from what he could tell. At the same time, it caused no red-ribbon tightness or need to flee. It wasn’t <em> his </em> name, not when he didn’t have one, but it was <em> a </em>name.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, Leo works.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, then.” Basira nodded and turned back to the group. “I don’t think ruling out the House of Wax just because Leo walked between here and there makes sense."</p><p> </p><p>“Great Yarmouth isn’t close,” Tim argued. “It’d take <em> days </em>to walk from there to here, there’s no way.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the Stranger, Tim. Stuff that doesn’t make sense is how they operate.”</p><p> </p><p>On that, she wasn’t wrong. The ringmaster couldn’t pin down anything off about his walks between here and there, but that assumed he would even notice in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>“So, Leo, you just… walk here?” Martin asked. </p><p> </p><p>“I— yeah, like I said. No car or anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira sighed. “Okay, you can keep trying to find some way to phrase <em>do you warp space</em> or whatever, but he clearly doesn’t know how it works.” She turned her own laptop around with a photo pulled up. “Is this where the circus is operating out of?”</p><p> </p><p>There was no denying it. The smooth brick, the familiar street. That was it. The building looked too small for what it housed, of course it did, but he knew better than to believe in the falsehoods of physical space. That was all rules held together by nothing more than flimsy mutual agreement, no more real than any other structure. </p><p> </p><p>No denying, yes, but at the same time, no affirming. He couldn’t. These people wanted to stop the dance, stop the Unknowing. There was no way to stop it, of course, so his honesty wouldn’t change anything, but they could certainly postpone it. He couldn’t allow that, he couldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Whether or not he wanted the Unknowing to happen was negligible. Nikola wanted it, which meant it would happen. His own wants, the wants of the people around him, they didn’t mean anything. It was the same as an ant protesting a gardener's pesticide. It could argue, plead for mercy, gather all those that shared its hive into a great rally, but in the end would fall under that merciless changing tide — if they weren’t crushed by an absent boot first. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever happened at the Unknowing, the ringmaster wasn’t interested in shepherding everyone here under the boot’s tread. </p><p> </p><p>After a long moment of quiet, he felt a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo?” came Tim’s cautious voice. “Everything okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded but, when he looked up to Basira again, found his voice still failed him. Her eyes were sharp as scalpels; he couldn’t take it. Part of him still wanted to lie. Claim that wasn’t the right place. Misdirect, mislead. Smoke and mirrors.</p><p> </p><p>She’d see right through him, he knew. She’d see through any lie, and he couldn’t bring himself to give the truth. It wasn’t a tightrope walk, because that implied he knew what the right path was even if it was difficult to stay true to. </p><p> </p><p>He had no idea what the right path was, here. What did they constitute as right? How did these people define truth? What consequence came with the wrong?</p><p> </p><p>It was Melanie whose voice broke the stillness around them. “Look, is this— Is this a good idea?”</p><p> </p><p>The room’s collective focus turned to her, and Georgie asked, “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just—” She made a visible effort to not look at the ringmaster. “Making rescue plans to save Jon from the Stranger with, um—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t let her finish. “You’re joking.” </p><p> </p><p>“I just think that—”</p><p> </p><p>“What, that he’s a g-ddamn sleeper agent or something?” Tim snapped as he stood. “He’s not a— a <em>toy soldier,</em> he’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“Leo!” Martin exclaimed with painfully forced cheer. “I’m going to make some tea, you should come with me!” </p><p> </p><p>“Keeping some caution isn’t an outrageous thing!” Melanie argued with plenty of heat as she slipped off the desk. Neither she or Tim registered Martin’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s face was stony. “So you just look at every abduction victim and say, <em> Oh, they must be working right with the people holding them captive, of course that makes sense—” </em> </p><p> </p><p>“This is different and you know it!” </p><p> </p><p>Georgie caught Martin’s eye where he still stood by the ringmaster and nodded, then tilted her head for the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Perfect, let’s go right now,” Martin said in a rush as he bustled the ringmaster that way. </p><p> </p><p>Basira’s voice followed as they left — no surprise considering the shouting pair she had to contend with. “I think we can assume he’s got kind of Stockholm syndrome—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Thank </em>you!” Tim.</p><p> </p><p><em> “—meaning </em>he’s going to inherently want to side with them.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, just because he’s been basically <em> tortured </em>for four years, that means that—”</p><p> </p><p>Martin shut the door with enough haste that the slam echoed down the hall. Wincing, he looked back at the ringmaster.</p><p> </p><p>“...So, tea?”</p><p> </p><p>“Guess so.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster didn’t like being here, and he especially didn’t like being here without Tim. He knew where the tunnels were if he needed to make some kind of escape from the Eye, but it apparently required a key. Had Tim locked it behind him? Why hadn’t the ringmaster checked? Could he break down that door? No, no, the door swung into the building, not into the tunnels. He could kick at the lock all day and just get a sore foot for his trouble. </p><p> </p><p>G-d, why did he come back here at all? Why did he think this was a good idea? Why was he so willing to throw his life away, walk into this place where he was always watched and surrounded by people who wanted to hurt him, no way to escape, no one he could trust, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Tim mentioned that little scar on your mouth is from when you were kids,” Martin said apropos of nothing. “Do you remember how you got it?”</p><p> </p><p>Right. That was why.</p><p> </p><p>He took a moment to think. Something about the way Martin asked felt strangely… light, maybe? There was no weight to it, and Martin showed no impatience with him taking a little longer to put the pieces together. </p><p> </p><p>“Not fully, but…” He didn’t pay much attention to the halls passing around them, just followed Martin’s lead. Place didn’t matter. “I think Tim was irritated with me about it, so I must have done something ridiculous.”</p><p> </p><p>Together they came into a small kitchenette, currently empty. Martin glanced over to the ringmaster as he crossed to one cabinet.</p><p> </p><p>“What kind of tea do you like?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster paused, but this time he had nothing to even try and put together. He shrugged. “I have no idea.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll go with… Earl Grey, then?” Martin dug through a small collection of boxes, sounding unbothered by the stumble. “It’s pretty inoffensive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin turned on a small electric kettle, then faced the ringmaster again. “You said it was something ridiculous — were you some kind of daredevil growing up?”</p><p> </p><p>“Probably just reckless,” the ringmaster replied. “I think… I think it was from a fight, maybe?”</p><p> </p><p>“A fight? What about?”</p><p> </p><p>“Considering Tim was irritated, it must have been no good reason.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because I’m sure he <em> never </em>got in stupid fights as a teenager.” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you mean?” Tim was his brother, yes, but the ringmaster was well aware of how many holes still lay in his memory.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s just— He can get all hot-headed sometimes, and being a teenager just makes stuff like that more severe, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, true.” That wasn’t wrong, but something about it caught in the ringmaster’s head. Some reason Tim would’ve had to tread with more care, but not one he always heeded. The ringmaster tried to focus on that, but before he could pin anything down it slipped through his fingers and dissipated.</p><p> </p><p>The kettle chimed, and as Martin filled their two mugs, he glanced over. “What’s on your mind?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You looked like you were concentrating.”</p><p> </p><p>As he took the mug Martin handed him, he explained, “Just trying to remember more, but it didn’t come. It felt like it was <em> almost </em>there, but… nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin nodded, unbothered. “That’s probably for the best, right? I mean, if every memory hit you all at once, that’d just be overwhelming.” </p><p> </p><p>“I guess, but… It’s frustrating. It’s like looking at things through a kaleidoscope, where I think I can put the pieces together, I think I see whatever’s past it, but then it shifts.” He held the mug close and let its heat spread across his palms and down his fingers. “Then it’s just back to a bunch of meaningless colors.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin had no answer for that, not that the ringmaster could blame him. He sighed, then took a sip of the tea.</p><p> </p><p>It was… alright, he supposed. Little bitter. Not the most pleasant thing in the world, but maybe that was how it was meant to be. </p><p> </p><p>“D’you like it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, it’s— it’s fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Far from a glowing review, but passable enough. Martin checked the time on his phone. “They’re probably winding down by now, we should be good to head back.” </p><p> </p><p>“You sure? I might not remember specifics, but I do remember Tim can be stubborn.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin looked exasperated. “Melanie too, but hopefully Basira and Georgie got them to stop bickering. I swear, the two of them are <em> way </em>too similar. They’re going to burn the building down one of these days.” </p><p> </p><p>With a short laugh, the ringmaster nodded, but there was a solid layer of discomfort underneath. It wasn’t just <em> bickering. </em>It was about whether or not he could be trusted. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t even be insulted over Melanie’s immediate distrust, not when she voiced it while he debated lying about whether the place Basria showed him was correct. Not when he knew that fighting Nikola’s plan was pointless. </p><p> </p><p> ...Fighting Nikola’s plan was pointless, of course he knew that, but she didn’t need the Archivist specifically for it, right? There were other skins in the world. The Archivist escaping changed nothing in the grand scheme, so surely it was—</p><p> </p><p>Christ, what was he doing? Rationalizing what was, in the end, a waste of effort? He wasn’t stupid enough to make himself believe that, surely, surely it was okay. It wasn’t. The Unknowing would happen with or without the Archivist, but that was no reason to dance with delay. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist would remain as he was. The world would change down to its core. That was that.</p><p> </p><p>If Martin attempted to make conversation on their walk back, the ringmaster missed it, too tied up in his own thoughts. It was only when the door creaked he realized they were back at the archives at all. </p><p> </p><p>Melanie was seated on the desk again, looking sullen, and Tim’s arms folded tight across his chest. Tension made the air hum. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Basira said when she noticed their return. “We have some general plans.” </p><p> </p><p>Before she could continue, Tim interrupted with motion rather than words. <em> 'Is that tea?' </em></p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster set down his mug so he could sign in return without thinking twice.<em> 'Last I checked.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Be right back,' </em>Tim replied with slightly narrowed eyes. </p><p> </p><p>With that, he left. Considering how he’d looked ready to start throwing things not a moment before, him leaving for a bit was probably for the best, but that didn’t mean the ringmaster understood. Martin looked puzzled as well, though that was just as likely due to a lack of BSL fluency.</p><p> </p><p>There was a long period of quiet as the ringmaster sipped his bitter tea. Basira made some notes on her computer, but when she spoke again it was without bothering to wait for Tim to get back.</p><p> </p><p>“The ones going to extract Jon will be me, Daisy, Tim, and Melanie.”</p><p> </p><p>With brows furrowed, Martin said, “What, and you just expect me to stay behind while you’re off saving him?” </p><p> </p><p>“I could use the help,” Georgie answered. “I’m not exactly strike-team material, but everyone’s going to come back to my apartment after. Since we have no idea what state anyone will be in, it’d be nice to have a hand in getting stuff we might need ready.”</p><p> </p><p>Though Martin still looked frustrated, he sighed. “Fine. Fine, that works.” </p><p> </p><p>The door creaked as Tim came in again, this time with another steaming mug. He crossed right to the ringmaster. “Take this one.” </p><p> </p><p>Bemused, the ringmaster complied, handing over the tea in return. He took a cautious sip of whatever Tim brought, and the immediate rich sweetness made him smile. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve never been one for tea,” Tim explained as he retrieved his hearing aids from where he'd left them on the desk and put them back in. His face still retained some darkness from the argument just minutes ago, but it was softer now. “But we still have some hot chocolate mix in the breakroom.”</p><p> </p><p>Before the ringmaster could thank him, Tim turned back to the room. “So we know <em> who’s </em>going, what’s the plan once we’re inside?” </p><p> </p><p>“That depends.” Basira’s eyes flicked back over to the ringmaster. “But assuming we have everyone on board, it’ll be a little easier to navigate. Leo, you said it looks less real when the whole troupe is in motion — does that mean things are a little closer to reality between shows?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um, yeah. Yeah, I guess.” </p><p> </p><p>“You guess?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think our parameters for reality are a little different these days,” the ringmaster replied with a long drink. “But it looks more like a building then. Just… don’t expect it to match the dimensions of whatever the outside looks like.” </p><p> </p><p>“Got it.” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie spoke up again. “So what then?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll need to talk to Daisy some.” Basira made another quick note. “But she’s good at this. She would’ve been here, but Elias sent her on some hunt.” </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if the ringmaster missed her presence, and from Tim’s face it looked like he agreed.</p><p> </p><p>Basira continued, “We’ll talk about the specifics later.”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster couldn’t help his reply. “When I’m not here, you mean.” </p><p> </p><p>“When Daisy’s back,” she asserted after a pause. </p><p> </p><p>Tim scoffed and shook his head in continued disbelief, but however the argument from before went, he didn’t attempt an encore. </p><p> </p><p>After draining his mug, the ringmaster stood. “I should probably get going, anyway.” Being away too long was never a good idea, and he couldn’t say he liked being here much. </p><p> </p><p>"Before you go,” Basira cut in. “That travel thing you do. Could you bring anyone else with you?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shrugged, apologetic. “Considering I barely notice it even happens, I doubt it. Anyone else would be looking too close for how it works, I think, so it just… wouldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite a brief flash of disappointment, she nodded. “Got it. We’re moving in four days, so be ready.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Ready, sure. Ready for what? Ready to watch all of them walk right into waiting jaws? Ready for the Unknowing to kick off sooner than planned, if Nikola caught wind of saboteurs? Ready for whatever might happen if someone found out he knew, knew about all of this, and said nothing?</p><p> </p><p>Would he say nothing? </p><p> </p><p>It wouldn’t have been up for debate before. Nikola knew her performers inside and out, and speaking just meant keeping the trust there. Trust was important. </p><p> </p><p>But she didn’t know that the ringmaster knew his— that he knew. She didn’t know. She might not know he knew about this on sight either, which meant a confession was no longer about keeping trust despite her inevitably seeing every hidden thought. It was active betrayal. </p><p> </p><p>Betraying who? No matter what he did, someone would end up betrayed. </p><p> </p><p>“It was nice to see you, Leo!” Martin said as he took the empty mug. It sounded much more genuine than his last goodbye, and the ringmaster returned it in kind without a thought.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you too.” </p><p> </p><p>Georgie waved from where she sat at the desk. “See you in a few days, Leo.”</p><p> </p><p>The not-him name still felt strange, like shoes not yet broken in, but the ringmaster couldn’t be bothered with discomfort right then. He simply waved back and followed Tim out the door. </p><p> </p><p>As they walked, the ringmaster figured he might as well check the faint memory Martin drew out.</p><p> </p><p>“Martin asked where I got the scar you mentioned last time I was here, and I think— Did I get it in a fight?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s laugh was cut with old exasperation. “Yeah, you were fourteen, I was seventeen. Completely pointless, too.” </p><p> </p><p>“Pointless?” the ringmaster asked with a slight smile. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Completely. </em>You said something after about how you were trying to show Mum you weren’t some — oh, how’d you put it?” Tim snapped a couple times. <em>“Some g-ddamn golden kid,</em> I think you said.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” the ringmaster replied as Tim opened the door to the tunnels. “Did it work?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim laughed again as he grabbed the torch sitting just inside the door. “Uh, considering I made you come to my flat first and get cleaned up before you went back to her house, probably not as well as you would’ve liked.” </p><p> </p><p>“You had your own flat when you were seventeen?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Before the ringmaster could ask anything else, Tim changed the subject. “Sorry about all the fighting earlier. Probably wasn’t pleasant for Melanie to act like you’re some, I don’t know, weird spy or something.” </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster sighed. “I can’t really blame her.” </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t, maybe,” Tim grumbled. “But I sure as hell can.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, they arrived at the usual door. Before the ringmaster could open it, Tim tugged him around so they were face to face. </p><p> </p><p>“Remember: we’re going to be coming up that way in four days. I know you said time is hard, but Jon should be able to judge a little better, so check with him when you can.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right.” The ringmaster kept his face blank. There was still a lot to consider.</p><p> </p><p>“And I know there’s a rotating watch, right? Do you think you can make sure you’re the one on duty most of the day when we come?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster thought for a moment. “There isn’t a twenty-four hour watch anymore, but there’s still breaks for water and all. I can try to be sure I’m the one there.”</p><p> </p><p>There to help? There to tell them they were making a mistake? There to show them that there was no point to what they were doing? </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know. He truly, truly didn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded as if the ringmaster’s help was a given. As if he’d never once considered that the ringmaster would do anything but assist.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster felt a bit sick at that, but what else could he do? What possible other option was there against Nikola? Why would he even <em> want </em>to move against her?</p><p> </p><p>“Mind if I give you another hug before you go?” </p><p> </p><p>Even when he nodded, even when he reciprocated in full, that sickness didn’t abate. He felt only sicker, and Tim’s smile when they pulled apart doubled the feeling yet again.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got this, Leo.” Not his true name. Given purely for his comfort, purely so they could call him something unique, something that wouldn’t send him spiraling yet again. “Just four days, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Just four days. Four days to make this decision that shouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t be a decision at all. “See you then.”</p><p> </p><p>The same hesitation that showed every time the ringmaster left flashed across Tim's face, but he kept his smile all the same. “See you then.”</p><p> </p><p>The door shut, and the ringmaster hated himself for wishing, if only for a moment, that they would never meet again. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>“For the next act, we’ll need a fantastically brave volunteer!”</p><p> </p><p>Almost every hand in the audience flew into the air, and the ringmaster’s smile grew. He loved responsive crowds. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster hopped offstage to walk through each row of chairs. Eager fingers strained upright by the hundreds, but while he appreciated the enthusiasm, it wasn’t what he was looking for.</p><p> </p><p>He took his time. The anticipation was half the fun. and with both the knife thrower and Nikola onstage he didn’t worry about any lack of entertainment.</p><p> </p><p>Other shows might have used an audience plant. This was not other shows. </p><p> </p><p>And… <em> there. </em>One who didn’t appear to be enjoying himself. One shrunk down in their seat, not looking up, avoiding eye contact.</p><p> </p><p>What better way to understand than to participate? It was how he himself learned, after all.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster bent at the waist with a hand outstretched. “Sir, would you do me the honor of joining us for a show?”</p><p> </p><p>The man looked up at him, sweat-slicked and already shaking his head, but the woman next to him pushed at his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Go on, sweetheart! That’s so exciting!”</p><p> </p><p>And, when the man’s trembling hand locked with the ringmaster’s own, the audience roared its approval like a single creature. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s smile grew. “Fantastic. Come on, come on!” </p><p> </p><p>Together they made their way back to the stage, the ringmaster with his ever-fluid stride and the volunteer stumbling along behind. They ascended stairs at center stage and, once every spotlight focused on them, the ringmaster raised their joint hands high in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“A round of applause for our lovely, brave volunteer!”</p><p> </p><p>Whistles and cheers nearly deafened the music, and the man at his side’s breath came faster.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster understood. Standing here was <em> exhilarating.  </em></p><p> </p><p>As two others whisked the volunteer into the wings, the ringmaster backed away to let the knife thrower take center. Lights moved across the stage and crowd in dizzying orbits, matched by the blades that caught each light in flashes bright enough to blind. </p><p> </p><p>When the crowd screamlaughed once more, the ringmaster knew their volunteer was back onstage. He turned with hands spread wide in welcome.</p><p> </p><p>There, guided by two glittering assistants, was a large wheel. Cords of silk and velvet crisscrossed the wooden face, secure enough that their spread-eagle volunteer wouldn’t hurt himself.</p><p> </p><p>The music shifted to something brighter and ringing with tension, and the volunteer smiled, smiled, smiled. </p><p> </p><p>“One of the most dangerous tricks we have, everyone, and it looks like our thrower is,” he added with a scandalized gasp to his audience, “A little clumsy today!”</p><p> </p><p>The thrower caught each blade with deft hands, but the last they fumbled dramatically. One flick of the wrist, and it went sailing towards the wheel. Only a quick turn from the assistants kept it from meeting the volunteer between the eyes. Instead, it buried into the wood millimeters from his temple. </p><p> </p><p>At the thrower’s mock surprise, the audience cheered and the volunteer’s laughter grew, infectious.</p><p> </p><p>Two more knives “slipped”, catching the volunteer in each palm despite more spins from the assistants. Each time, the audience laughed more. No one was above slapstick, no matter what they may claim. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster sent the thrower a chastising look.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know you were the knife <em> fumbler </em>this evening!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you want <em> throwing?” </em> they replied with a grin at the audience like they were letting it in on a secret. They’d thankfully changed their voice from the awful grating one to something much smoother. “How’s <em> this!” </em></p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster caught a brief glint of light on metal before he angled his shoulders to one side and let the knife sail past his chest. From the shout offstage, it sounded like the blade had met its mark with someone much less adept at dodging at the ringmaster. There was no telling who just from that — very few people in the troupe were his match there, because very few had reason to be. Knives to the hilt in wood or stuffing meant only irritation.</p><p> </p><p>As he turned to the audience in mock offense, they cheered and howled, though he could tell plenty were disappointed that he’d managed to dodge. </p><p> </p><p>He was sorry to disappoint, yes, but he wasn’t the star of this show. That honor went to their lovely, laughing volunteer.  </p><p> </p><p>The dance of lights and color and notes grew even more rapid as the assistants sent their reddening wheel spinning. Dancers streamed on to fill the space between the thrower and their target. Claps attempted to find a rhythm that didn’t exist and succeeded only in adding to the wonderful cacophony. </p><p> </p><p>Through it all came the ribbonwhip hiss of blades as they cut through air. The ringmaster felt that same dizzy, lightheaded perfection that came with a show’s crescendo swell in his chest like helium, and he wanted nothing more than to share it with their captive, captivated audience. </p><p> </p><p>The dancers froze. The assistants’ hands tightened on the wheel. The volunteer stilled back upright. </p><p> </p><p>Once more, a flick of the thrower’s wrist.</p><p> </p><p>As the knife buried itself to the hilt in the volunteer’s throat, air caught in Danny’s own.</p><p> </p><p>What… What the hell was he doing? What had he <em> done? </em></p><p> </p><p>This person was dead. This person was dead, and Danny had smiled and laughed and led them to it by the hand.</p><p> </p><p>He knew, from his sudden rolling nausea, that this was far from the first time.</p><p> </p><p>The crowd at his back howled its satisfaction, but Danny couldn’t tear his eyes from the body left sagging against bloodstained wood. Only silken cords and knives pierced through the hands and throat kept it from crumpling to the stage floor. </p><p> </p><p>Screamlaughter tightened around his throat like a noose, and when he managed to look away only to see Nikola watching him, he almost choked on it.</p><p> </p><p>Danny— He— The ringmaster, the <em> ringmaster </em>pivoted on one heel to face the audience once more and threw himself as hard as he could into the sound of their cheers and the inescapable everywhere song.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could speak a word, a different voice rang out.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my dears, don’t worry a bit!” </p><p> </p><p>He knew better than to look behind him. He didn’t have to to feel Nikola dance over to stand at his back.</p><p> </p><p>“The show isn’t over yet, lovelies! We have a very special surprise for you today.”</p><p> </p><p>Cold hands closed around his wrists and spread his arms out wide as he smiled, smiled, smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“A round of applause for our lovely, brave ringmaster!”</p><p> </p><p>As if he’d known this was coming all along, he did his best to bow even as Nikola kept his wrists locked behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Eyes closed, he let the music and cheers fill him. Let it carry him along. All a part of the show, yes. </p><p> </p><p>As he stood upright once more, she reached around to pull his jacket off him and swung it around her own shoulders, then guided him to the side of the stage.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be your temporary ringmaster, my loves,” she called as she returned to center stage. “I <em> do </em>hope you don’t mind!”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster was left at a tall pole set with a ladder. He didn’t hesitate in climbing as Nikola worked the crowd, charming as ever.</p><p> </p><p>A tightrope, then. He could do that. He would be fine. </p><p> </p><p>Even as the others cleared out, no one bothered to take the wheel with them. He couldn’t let himself look at it, he couldn’t. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the show.</p><p> </p><p>When he reached the small platform at the top, he snapped. The sound rang out and pulled every eye to him as the spotlights narrowed. The music fell to soft chimes.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could step out into the air, someone he didn’t see affixed a strip of velvet around his eyes. Good. Good, yes, that meant he wouldn’t see the— see whatever might still be onstage. A small mercy from Nikola, and he could only be grateful.</p><p> </p><p>His first steps were slow and cautious, testing the cord’s give, but there was only so much time his audience’s limited patience would allow for that. As the music swelled to heavy, dark chords of piano, he tipped forward to catch himself on his hands and lifted his legs into the air. The rope caught strangely against his skin, but he couldn’t think about it now.</p><p> </p><p>Nikola’s voice continued to sing out, but he forced himself to concentrate on nothing but the music.</p><p> </p><p>Back on his feet he found balance once more, then leapt back to twist in the air, caught himself on one foot, and let himself sway with the momentum. To the audience he would look unbalanced, and by their gasps he knew many were anxious for him to fall. </p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t. He was the ringmaster and this was his show and he wouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>A soft hiss was his only warning before the air beneath him exploded with heat. Audience screamlaughs clanged against each other, and the ringmaster grinned so wide it hurt, hurt like his hands and his chest and it couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t matter right now. </p><p> </p><p>The stage was on fire, and the ringmaster laughed.</p><p> </p><p>He held his arms wide, tipped back, and fell.</p><p> </p><p>With a quick twist he caught himself with the rope trapped between his ankles. The rising smoke made him desperate to cough, but he couldn’t. Coughing meant ruining the illusion of the untouchable. Coughing meant failure. Failure was not an option. </p><p> </p><p>The music rushed along in great crashing harmonies as he swung around and released the rope to catch in hand. Another swing and he was up once more, the heat below so intense it felt like a solid, hungry mass snapping up to reach for him.</p><p> </p><p>He had no thought in his head beyond the next immediate moments. Step, spin, fall, catch, ignore skintear and burntouch. Ignore the ache in his shoulders, ignore the distance between him and the fire below — one that felt both far too wide and not nearly wide enough. </p><p> </p><p>After an eternity the music began to draw back, and he knew he was free to finally, finally make his way to the opposite platform. He tipped forward once more and walked hand over hand; one last small trick to state the crowd before he was back to solid ground.</p><p> </p><p>A long, low bow to uproarious applause and, sweat-drenched and blood running rivulets down his hands, he smiled, smiled, smiled.</p><p> </p><p>Things moved in a haze, and the ringmaster felt far from his own body. Was it him climbing down once more? Him, giving one last smile and bow, him making playful back-and-forth banter with Nikola over his stolen jacket for the audience, him wishing them a lovely night? </p><p> </p><p>The curtain dropped like cold water over his head. Everything went from blurred to so sharp it cut as Nikola turned him to face her.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers under his chin to tilt his head up, she studied him for a long moment. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened to you, my dear?” It wasn’t a question she wanted him to answer, he knew. “Where did my ringmaster go?”</p><p> </p><p><em> I’m right here, </em> he thought. <em> I’m here, I’m here, I swear I’m here. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Well, wherever you went, you recovered like a dream.” Her voice was warm, and the ringmaster felt ready to collapse with sheer relief. He recovered, he did well. Still the ringmaster, still what he should be, still good. </p><p> </p><p>The sharpsafe tips of her fingers moved from where they cut into the skin under his jaw to settle on either side of his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“You recovered,” she murmured. “But we should make sure slips like this have no encore.”</p><p> </p><p>All went white.</p><p> </p><p>It was only when water brushed his hands that he fell back into his own body. Everything in him wished he could retreat back into the colorblur void and let himself float along in music, but these gentle touches grounded him far too much for escape. The now-missing blindfold meant he had no shield.</p><p> </p><p>Had he really thought, just before, that he hurt? Did he think <em> that </em>was pain? </p><p> </p><p>Laughable. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist looked up from where she knelt next to him, holding a red-stained, dripping cloth. He couldn’t make himself look at the mess of his hands, not when he could instead watch the soothing blue of her eyes and hope that, if he stared long enough, everything else would fade away.</p><p> </p><p>Her voice, soft, cold, soothing, twined in the air like the piping of a music box. “You know I don’t like seeing you this way, ringmaster. You shouldn’t— I don’t know, I just… I wish this didn’t have to happen.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he croaked. His voice was nearly as shredded as his palms, but still he reached up to brush away the tear on her face. His thumb left a streak of wine red carved against the white of her skin. He hated seeing her so upset, and hated that he was the cause even more. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Shh…” </em>She sat forward to kiss his sweaty forehead, then followed the tear tracks on his cheeks with more. Finally, she set one against his mouth, still panting from the pain. </p><p> </p><p>“I forgive you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Undoing knots with his hands in this state made his breath come in hisses, but it was no matter. One, two, three, and each cord fell after twice as long as normal. </p><p> </p><p>He knew better than to take up his usual post leaned against the wall, not with his back as it was at that moment. No, he would stay seated on the ground and force himself to breathe; slowly, cautiously, hiding any winces as best he could. He tried to smile, he did, but there was no pulling it from the grimace it truly was. </p><p> </p><p>Hands massaging his wrists, the Archivist looked him over with a furrowed brow and wide eyes. Concerned. </p><p> </p><p>“Are— are you alright, ringmaster?”</p><p> </p><p>Again, an attempted smile. Again, he knew, failure. </p><p> </p><p>“Just a brief slip in a show, Archivist. Nothing for you to worry about.”</p><p> </p><p>His pain came because he had a role in the show he was meant to fulfill, and he did not fulfill it. Simple cause and effect. He was meant to do this job, and he failed.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist had no role here. Any pain that came to him had none of the same cause and effect. How could he be punished for a crime that, by its nature, he could never commit? </p><p> </p><p>For the ringmaster, punishment made sense. For the Archivist, it did not.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shifted where he sat, and gasped when it made a seam in his jacket drag along his back. He held out the walking stick he’d left tucked behind one of the figures so the Archivist could stand if he chose, and though the Archivist took it with a grateful nod, he remained quiet and waited instead for the ringmaster to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“In— in three days,” he finally said with every word halting. “The Eye’s people are going to be here. M-My brother. And some of the others.”</p><p> </p><p>A deep breath, and he looked up to meet the Archivist’s startled, searching eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“In three days, we’re going to get you out of here.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: identity issues, vague references to a less than ideal childhood/home life, canon-typical violence (and a specific warning for hand trauma), canon-typical death, emotional abuse/manipulation</p><p>some of you might recognize the friend georgie mentions! for those that don't, check out [<a href="https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/post/616762025902735360/fuck-it-gerrytitan-masterpost">this masterpost</a>] of all my and ron's content and how they all (and i do mean all) of them connect in both big and small ways</p><p>gonna cheat re: suggested listening here -- grace for sale inspired this whole damn fic so I'm not going to replace it BUT <b>please listen to sirens by bear ghost too. this is imperative.</b></p><p>also, a fun aside: if hlm was a movie, soviet trumpeter by katzenjammer would <i>absolutely</i> be the background music for the whole show at the end</p><p>in the wings: scene changes, cast rotation</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. DEATH</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On faces, choices, and playing the waiting game.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>let's kick this one off with MORE ART!<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368298336108544/vastdweller-danny-mr-stoker-sir-i-have">a VERY lovely danny portrait</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368319648464896/cucumberkale-he-fell-into-a-deep-bow-smiling">the drama! the spookiness! hell yeah!!</a>]</p><p>suggested listening: dark carnivale by frenchy and the punk (<a href="https://genius.com/Frenchy-and-the-punk-dark-carnivale-lyrics">and a bonus link to the lyrics since i had to transcribe this one and i died irl. appreciate my sacrifice.</a>)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Conviction was a fickle creature.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster knew he did not want the Archivist to die.</p><p> </p><p>He knew he did not want to betray anyone.</p><p> </p><p>He knew, always, that he did not want to die.</p><p> </p><p>There was no choice in the second — he <em> would </em>betray someone. Whether it would be his half-decade home or his half-remembered history, only time would tell.</p><p> </p><p>With no more than himself as counsel, things grew even less clear. He was no paragon of decision-making. The past few days alone proved his choices brought only disaster. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t be trusted by himself with this, but who was there to help him? None understood. For better or worse, he was alone. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist rarely left his side after the last show. Always there with her wide, watching eyes, her sharp little taps when he drifted too much; always there should he want to talk. </p><p> </p><p>Was this the day? Was tomorrow?</p><p> </p><p>Temptation sang in his head, and deafened more with each passing minute.</p><p> </p><p>Even she wouldn’t understand. He knew her answer without needing to ask: <em> the show must go on. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> ...Would </em> that be her answer? If he explained, <em> really </em>explained, would she see? Would she be able to tell him what he should do?</p><p> </p><p>No. No, he wouldn’t put her in that danger, not after all she’d done for him. That would be its own betrayal. </p><p> </p><p>So, when she helped him pull gloves over his still-stinging hands and asked what he was thinking about, he gave her only a smile. Her mirror and a quick kiss reassured him that this, at least, was the right answer.</p><p> </p><p>The decision made itself when at no point in those interim days (had it been the full four days the dark-eyed one said? had it been the three that he told the Archivist?) did he leave and look for his next audience. Never once did he extend his hand to passersby and invite them to a performance they could never imagine. He stayed in as hours passed and had nothing to show for his time but dread.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was to ensure he was still there when the proper time came. Maybe he was merely digging his own grave.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster did not want the Archivist to die. The ringmaster also did not want to die. He was beginning to suspect mutual exclusion.</p><p> </p><p>Even if the half-baked plan worked, even if the Archivist escaped, even if he wasn’t caught helping, the ringmaster had damned himself without question. Nikola was a forgiving sort, but this was too many slights in too short a time. </p><p> </p><p>If… If he finally agreed to change his costume, would that be enough to stay in her good graces? If he became a full member of the troupe after making such a fuss this long, would that be enough to prove his loyalty? </p><p> </p><p>The mere idea made everything inside him go cold, but he could think of no alternatives. He had nothing to offer but himself. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist could tell he’d come to some sort of conclusion, but when asked the ringmaster simply told him that everything was going to be fine. Not what he wanted to hear, of course, but it was all he could voice. </p><p> </p><p>Everything <em> was </em> going to be fine. The Archivist would leave. The ringmaster would stay. The repercussions would come. </p><p> </p><p>He knew he could handle pain; it was the anticipation that he hated. Knowing a blow would land, a blade would fall, a lash would strike, but with no idea from where or when — that, he hated more than the marks they left. </p><p> </p><p>Thinking about it didn’t help, of course it didn’t. His inaction already decided for him. He couldn’t turn back the days (was it time yet? was it time?)</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s judgment of time was, unfortunately, not as precise as the other man had assumed. He was no better able to tell than the ringmaster. </p><p> </p><p>With all these unknowns, the ringmaster was certain his heart pounded loud enough for everyone he passed to hear it. He didn’t know what to look for, he didn’t know when the proper time was, he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to do this — do <em> any </em>of it — and fear hammered away in the deafening rhythm of his tell-tale heart. </p><p> </p><p>That… that was the name of a story, wasn’t it? One he used to like. Yes, he could remember whole stacks of horror novels from before. He got into them after endless jokes about the vampire one, because the author shared the same—</p><p> </p><p>No. Couldn’t think about it. Not now.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone must know. They had to, there was no way they didn’t. They must all know that the ringmaster was putting on some childish little rebellion, and were waiting with the anticipation of a show rather than that of retribution. The same event he himself anticipated, but from the seats rather than the stage. </p><p> </p><p>That performance would be his and Nikola’s alone. Always had been. </p><p> </p><p>She must know, after all. Even if she couldn’t see all his pieces — though he had no reason to believe she couldn’t, not truly — she knew what rebellion looked like on him. Back in the beginning, in those early days he couldn’t recall beyond color and hurt and music, he wore it plenty. Not well, but often.</p><p> </p><p>It hadn’t lasted long, of course. Would she still recognize it on him?  </p><p> </p><p>She would. It wasn’t a matter of <em> if, </em> but <em> when.  </em></p><p> </p><p>This rescue mission was its own when-not-if. They would come, the ringmaster knew. As he’d said to another one of them, the man he knew best was stubborn. Had been since they were— since the ringmaster could remember. He and the others, they would be here and would expect the ringmaster to receive them. </p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have agreed to this. To any of it. He should have brushed off the very first comment about someone that looked like him as nothing more than the rambling of a man faced with what he couldn’t understand. He should have ignored it all and kept doing what he was meant to do. What he loved. What he was made for. His purpose, yes, that was the reason he was here, and he shouldn’t acknowledge the outside beyond what it was: a waiting audience.</p><p> </p><p>Stupidly, ridiculously, childishly, it was the memory of warm, rich sweetness that made his growing reluctance stutter. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t imagine that, after this, he would be able to slip away from the troupe again for anything, warm drinks and otherwise. Either he would be alive and back in the same constant watch he had at the start, he would be dead by morning, or he would be… different. Changed.</p><p> </p><p>It was almost funny — even now he didn’t know which scared him the most.</p><p> </p><p>He could run circles in his mind until he was dizzy with uncertainty and fear. There was nothing for him but to wait. </p><p> </p><p>He’d known from the start that changing his costume was a matter of time. The inevitable was only so patient. He’d just hoped that, when it finally came for him, he would have grown a little more numb to the things it brought. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe that was why he needed to get the whole process over with. No one else in the show ever seemed so g-ddamn afraid all the time. </p><p> </p><p>No, no, it wasn’t all the time. Just now. Just when he was doing something wrong. Living with that fear these past few days had messed with his memories, put them all in a bad light. Normally, it was all fine. It was <em> fun. </em> Simple. Easy. </p><p> </p><p>With the Archivist gone and him changed, maybe things could be simple like before. Maybe that was what he needed for it all to go back to normal. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted that. He wanted that so badly he ached. </p><p> </p><p>Before he could have it, there were shackles to free them of: the Archivist of his bonds and the ringmaster of his face.</p><p> </p><p>He would watch, he would wait, and when the time came, he would submit. That was all there was to it. </p><p> </p><p>And, when he noticed a very slight movement backstage in the middle of practice, he spared a moment in the midst of colorspin and buzzing fear to be grateful that despite how slapdash their rescue plan was, the others had managed to find the best time to come.</p><p> </p><p>Not a <em> good </em>time, mind. There wasn’t a good time — just the best available.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster wasn’t central to the current act. Of all the tricks they had, he was a key component in very few. His role came with crowds. </p><p> </p><p>At the dance’s peak, he slipped offstage. He could only pray his absence remained unnoticed long enough to get the Archivist out. </p><p> </p><p>After that was… was after. He wouldn’t think about it or risk freezing where he stood.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t tell where the others were. Looking for them wasn’t an option. Instead, he kept even pace as he walked towards the Archivist’s room. After a pause outside under the guise of adjusting his jacket, he slipped in and left the door cracked behind him.</p><p> </p><p>His hands were no more cooperative untying the knots than before, but he couldn’t take extra time now. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as the gag fell, the Archivist asked, “The others? Are they here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” He ignored the slow reddening of his gloves as he yanked at the cords around the Archivist’s wrists. </p><p> </p><p>The last one fell to the floor right as the door behind him creaked. He leapt to his feet with a smile and a lie about water breaks on his lips, only for it to die when he saw his brother and the three others. </p><p> </p><p>The hijabi woman and her partner stayed at the door, and the third woman stuck near them with hand at the ready by the hilt of a knife in her belt. </p><p> </p><p>His brother put a quick hand on his back with a once-over, and when the ringmaster nodded, turned to the Archivist and held out the other hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Can you go one week without getting in mortal danger, boss?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,” the Archivist grumbled as he took it and, grimacing, stood. He accepted the stolen walking stick from the ringmaster with a quiet, “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” snapped the woman with the knife. “We need to get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>The two at the door made quick eye contact and traded nods, then the smaller slipped out of the room. After a second, there was a single knock.</p><p> </p><p>“Back the way we came. Let’s go,” the hijabi woman ordered. With her holding the door, they filed out one by one to skirt along the wall. </p><p> </p><p>They’d only just made it behind a stack of old props when the ringmaster froze. </p><p> </p><p>His brother looked over with clear concern. “What—”</p><p> </p><p>He got only the single word out before the ringmaster held up a hand, listening hard.</p><p> </p><p>“Those notes…” The ringmaster turned to face the others. “The song’s almost over. We’ve got until Nikola finishes talking to each of them before they all come offstage.” </p><p> </p><p>“So we run?” asked the one with the knife.</p><p> </p><p>The other smaller woman shook her head. “That’s asking to get caught.”</p><p> </p><p>“So, what, we just <em> sit </em>here?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster took a deep breath, thinking hard. “Alright. All of you were curious about the place and wandered in, and I found you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Urban explorers,” his brother suggested dryly.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. I found you and I’m taking you all on the grand tour.” The ringmaster’s eyes were wide and serious, smile sharp. There was no time to express how important it was that they do exactly what he said, exactly how he said it, so he would have to pray that they could see it in his face and hear it in his voice. “Do not look up. Do not look around. Do not react to any of the things I say or point at. Walk when I walk, stop when I stop.” </p><p> </p><p>By their expressions, he could tell none were happy about the plan. No surprise considering how much trust in him it required. </p><p> </p><p>At his side, his brother pierced all the rest with a hard look as if daring them to argue. None did.</p><p> </p><p>“Archivist, can you walk without the cane?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, yes, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Leave it. It’ll draw too much attention.” He looked them over once more. The hijab would draw some as well, but he wasn’t about to ask her to take it off. It could even work in their favor — eyes would go to her first, decide all was normal, and move on without looking closely at the rest. </p><p> </p><p>To her, he said, “You and my brother are the biggest here. One of you stays between the Archivist and the room, the other stays in front of him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got point,” his brother replied immediately. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster nodded. Conversation onstage built, which meant Nikola was finished speaking. They were out of time.</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone ready?”</p><p> </p><p>In the end, it didn’t matter if they were or not. The curtain rose either way. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster stepped backwards a few paces. “Right this way, ladies, gentlemen, and all those between! I know the props are interesting, but they’re far better during the show.” </p><p> </p><p>The others shuffled along after. None were quite as adrift as true interlopers, but it’d have to be enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Unfortunately you came a bit too late to watch us practice, but a hand for all our lovely performers as they come off the stage!”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s hands began to raise as if to applaud, but the hijabi woman elbowed him. Good.</p><p> </p><p>They moved forward. He had to move at a slow pace to keep the illusion sound, but his heart hammered in staccato beats. </p><p> </p><p>“I see we have a very stiff audience here!” he said with an off-tempo laugh. Over his shoulder, he called, “We’ll have to work hard to impress this lot, eh?”</p><p> </p><p>That got some amused calls of, “Yeah, yeah!” from the others in the troupe. On a better day, it’d be an inside joke — those brought backstage would never react to anything they saw beyond faint wells of fear, and those in the seats would never be anything but impressed.</p><p> </p><p>“This way, my friends! Plenty more to see.” </p><p> </p><p>One performer — out of costume, so the ringmaster couldn’t place what — skirted close. The wolfteeth one recoiled slightly from her place in the back, hackles risen and cutting a sharp glare to the side. </p><p> </p><p>She might as well shout, <em> Notice me! </em>at the top of her lungs. Rather than let her discomfort give them away, the ringmaster snapped his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>In an instant, every eye in the group locked on him, hers included. He made sure to look right at her when he said. “Stick together, everyone! Don’t get distracted by our beautiful performers — far too much to see!”</p><p> </p><p>Though her lip curled like she was about to snarl at him, he could see the tension drop from her shoulders and her eyes focus once more on the vague middle distance. It’d have to do. </p><p> </p><p>As they made their slow, shuffling way, he noticed his brother was no longer watching that same middle distance. Instead, his eyes tracked the ringmaster’s gloves and the wine-colored stain on the palms and inside the fingers. All he could do about that was adjust his gestures to keep only the backs of his hands facing the group and pray that his brother wouldn’t let whatever was bothering him distract too much. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, blessedly, they made it to the mouth of one of the halls. They twisted in strange loops and would be difficult to navigate for those unfamiliar, but enough things were hidden throughout that no one would question him bringing their guests this way. Among those things were a couple doors that led outside.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster turned to walk backwards again. “Now, you might think this direction looks a little dull compared to how exciting the stage is, but don’t let that fool you,” he announced with a wink. “Nothing is ever what it seems!”</p><p> </p><p>His only warning was a slight widening of the Archivist’s eyes before a voice at his back interrupted. </p><p> </p><p>“Ringmaster?”</p><p> </p><p>Of course it had to be her. Of course.</p><p> </p><p>He faced the contortionist, smiling. “Fancy seeing you here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, there,” she replied with her own grin. “I was looking for you onstage. Where’d you go?”</p><p> </p><p>Another wink. “Some audience members wanted a sneak preview of the show, so I thought I’d give them the grand tour!” </p><p> </p><p>“Can you put them with the backup costumes? Nikola wanted to see how you were doing and sent me to fetch you.”</p><p> </p><p>His mouth went dry but still, still his mask remained. “Mind if I finish this tour first? They were so <em> excited, </em>I’d hate to leave them in the middle.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know how impatient she gets. Come on, they’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>The others wouldn’t be able to keep it together there, the ringmaster knew; not to mention the Archivist would stand out like blood on porcelain. Going along would damn them all, not just the ringmaster. He didn’t know the others, not really, but he knew he couldn’t leave his brother to that fate.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m almost done, I promise.” His voice remained light and coaxing. “Can you tell her I’ll be right there?”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist’s head tilted until it was parallel with the floor. “...You’ve been acting off the past few days, ringmaster. I’ve been patient, but you need to tell me what’s happening.” She held out a hand. “You can tell Nikola and I both — I know she’s also worried about you. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>Any other day, he would gladly follow. Any other day, she might have agreed, even spun a little cover story for Nikola as he finished up.</p><p> </p><p>This was not any other day. She was right: he’d been off, of course he had. He had no explanation to give her, and he couldn’t, shouldn’t follow. </p><p> </p><p>When he hesitated, her brows drew in and she waved her hand. “Ringmaster?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just— It’ll be just one moment. And after we talk, we can do whatever you’d like the rest of the day, okay?” He tried for an encouraging smile. Maybe, maybe she would see that this was important to him. </p><p> </p><p>When her eyes turned from confused to suspicious, he knew she did, but not in the way he’d hoped. He should have told her before now. He should have trusted her, then maybe she would have helped him with this. Helped, or talked him out of the whole ridiculous scheme. At this point, he’d accept either if it meant she would stop looking at him like that. </p><p> </p><p>She spoke the lines he expected like a true performer, but that by no means meant they were pleasant to hear. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get distracted, ringmaster.” Her hand stayed outstretched. “The show must go on.”</p><p> </p><p>Such a small phrase shouldn’t make him flinch as it did, but words were deceptive things. Nothing was as it seemed and the show must go on, would go on, and he needed to listen. Yes. He would go with her and see Nikola and do as told because the show must go on and there was no pain like the disappointment that came when he was the reason it failed. </p><p> </p><p>His breath shook in his chest and his hands were no better as he reached out to her, to meet her with his white-gone-red gloves because the show must go on and he had a part to play, he did, and he would, he would not be the one to stop it, he <em> couldn’t, </em>he would never, not ever. The show must go on and his hands burned and his back blazed and the thread trapped in scar tissue stung and there was red-ribbon terror winding around his throat but none of it mattered because the show must go on, and it would, it would, and— </p><p> </p><p>A hand closed around his wrist. Large, warm. It pulled, shoved him back with an elbow. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster couldn’t see Tim’s face, but the fire in his voice as he growled, “Fuck off,” painted a clear picture.  </p><p> </p><p>With a gasp the contortionist jerked away, but it wasn’t long before her face twisted in hatred. </p><p> </p><p>Tim pulled back without looking away from her even as he said over his shoulder, “We should probably run.”</p><p> </p><p>The rest didn’t hesitate. With Tim’s iron grip on his arm, the ringmaster barely had time to meet the contortionist’s cold, safe eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>If she had a reply, Tim gave him no time to catch it before dragging him along. </p><p> </p><p>She’d forgiven him before, once he proved his remorse. He couldn’t imagine what it would take to earn her forgiveness this time.</p><p> </p><p>He would never be able to make this up to her.</p><p> </p><p>Her voice rang through, calling others to help catch the group and their renegade ringmaster. Any hope he’d once had that he could pull this off without being noticed was long gone, and that was— that was for later. Not now. If he thought about it now they would fail. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist tripped hard, bracing an arm on the wall, and Tim slowed to guard. “Jesus, just—” He turned so his back was to the Archivist. “Come on!”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not— You’re not going to <em> carry </em>me!”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, can you run?” Tim snapped. The hijabi woman and her partner both had guns drawn, and the ringmaster wasn’t sure that now was the best time to say that he doubted their effectiveness here. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes!” the Archivist hissed as he pushed off the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Then fucking <em> run!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Music began to wind in the air, and cold dread curled low in the ringmaster’s stomach. “Stick with me — things are going to start looking—”</p><p> </p><p>“Strange?” the hijabi woman huffed as if it were a joke.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. This way!” </p><p> </p><p>Together they crashed through one door into a long corridor with walls of rough canvas. </p><p> </p><p>“Where the hell—” the Archivist began, but the ringmaster didn’t let him finish.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t think about it!” If they tried to understand, they would only confuse themselves more. They would question what they didn’t know until the things they did no longer made sense, and right now they couldn’t afford that sort of distraction. Not when the music played. Not when he could hear the clamor of pursuit far too close for comfort behind them. </p><p> </p><p>A crossroads. The ringmaster hesitated for only a moment, and when down one hall he saw cloth shift in a way far from natural, took the opposite path. No telling what moved it. Didn’t matter. Whatever it was, they shouldn’t get close. </p><p> </p><p>A door in the same hall burst open, and it was only his quick reflexes that kept the ringmaster from running straight into it. He spun on one heel without breaking stride. </p><p> </p><p>Being quick on his feet did nothing to shut the door, however, nor block the stream of everycolor blinding lights that shone in from wherever it led. He called, <em> “Don’t look!” </em>as loud as he could, but the damage was done. </p><p> </p><p>Light plus music plus shifting everything. Bad combination for him, and he knew how to parse what he saw. Worse for the others. They needed out of these halls where he couldn’t predict what might be around any corner, and he couldn’t afford a headcount when their pursuers were still so close. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, come on! This way!” </p><p> </p><p>He kept his steps out of the music’s tempo and snapped his fingers off-beat, praying the whole time that those would be enough to keep him clear to the others. He was a part of the troupe and that might mean he would end up another shifting form of nothing but colors and wide, wide grins, but if he didn’t follow the dance they might be able to differentiate. </p><p> </p><p>When they reached the door at the end of the hall, the ringmaster’s heart dropped to find it led into a storage room rather than outside as he’d hoped. Still an improvement. It wasn’t perfect, not when they could still hear the music, but a shield from the lights would help as they figured out what to do next. </p><p> </p><p>He turned as the hijabi woman shut the door behind them to see the Archivist slipping down from Tim’s back — pride didn’t mean much when running for one’s life, he supposed. </p><p> </p><p>“Where are the others?” he panted. </p><p> </p><p>The hijabi woman’s face went tight even as she scrounged up an old prop sword to slide between the door handles.</p><p> </p><p>“We expected we might get split up, so they know to meet us at the car. Melanie’s fast, and Daisy’s good at finding her way. They’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a moment of quiet, then the Archivist said, “So, what do we do now?”</p><p> </p><p>They all looked at the ringmaster. Expectant. He must have brought them here for a reason, right? Surely he had some grand plan to keep them all safe and sound, yes?</p><p> </p><p>He ran one hand down his face and winced at the metallic smell. “I— I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know?” asked the woman, disbelieving. “Just led us in here for kicks, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I led you in here so you wouldn’t die! Sorry if that isn’t enough for you. I’ll be sure to make a whole damn map next time I sign up for a suicidal jailbreak mission!” </p><p> </p><p>The woman opened her mouth as if to argue when a soft knock came from the door. Three taps, cheerful and quiet as if from a child who hadn’t yet learned how to best form a fist. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” called a voice the ringmaster didn’t recognize, high-pitched and sweet as candyfloss. “Is anyone home?” </p><p> </p><p>None of them moved. The others stared at the ringmaster as if he might have answers, but whatever they saw in him, it wasn’t a comfort. They remained silent.</p><p> </p><p>Another knock. “Hello? Please, is anyone there? I have a present!” </p><p> </p><p>It’d be a laughable ruse if the one doing it meant to trick them. They didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” Three soft little knocks. “Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>“N-no one’s home!” the Archivist called back. Tim shot him a half-angry, half-baffled look, but didn’t have time to voice any of it before the one outside replied. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that sure is a shame! I wanted to say hello to the ringmaster’s friends.” There was an audible smile to the words. “Instead, I’ll just say goodbye!”</p><p> </p><p>Absolute silence, then the doors heaved inwards with a howl. </p><p> </p><p>While the ringmaster, his brother, and the Archivist all stumbled away, the woman darted forward to lean her full weight against one door. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim!” she shouted past the racket just outside. “Hold the other one!” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t answer, just raced up to fall in next to her. Together, they dug their heels in and held back whatever hellstorm bayed for their blood.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist looked back at the ringmaster in desperation, but the ringmaster had nothing. Nothing for them, nothing for any of them. Some distant part of him hoped that if this nightmare was focused on them, the other two might actually make it out, but the rest of his thoughts were nothing but the glare of blind red panic. </p><p> </p><p>“What do we—” The Archivist needed only three words before the ringmaster rounded on him.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know! I don’t know what we do! I don’t know, okay, I don’t! I’m sorry, I don’t know, and I’m sorry you all came here, I’m sorry I left, okay, I don’t <em> know!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Another voice he didn’t recognize made all the hair on the back of his neck rise as it unspooled into the air. </p><p> </p><p>“It sounds like you all could use a door.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t look over, but the ringmaster heard him snarl, “Oh, piss <em> off!” </em>as he braced against the battering crowd with new ferocity. </p><p> </p><p>Perched next to a yellow, wooden door that hadn’t existed mere moments ago was a figure the ringmaster didn’t recognize. Tall, blond. Beyond that, it was hard to say, but he knew eyes should not be that many colors, and that limbs should not move as the figure’s did. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not a very polite way to talk to your friend and savior!” The figure’s smile held far too many teeth. </p><p> </p><p>“Cry me—” Tim growled, pushed back a moment as something crashed against the front door. “—a g-ddamn river.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s distrust was palpable.  “What do you want?” </p><p> </p><p>“To kill you, of course!”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes, but between now and whenever you intend to do that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought I might offer you a way out. Oh, I do wish I had time to <em> explain, </em> Archivist, so you could <em> understand, </em>but alas!”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist said something to that, no doubt, but the ringmaster couldn’t hear it past a saccharine voice from the hall outside.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, is this where our naughty ringmaster has hidden himself and the Archivist?” </p><p> </p><p>Every part of him went stock-still.</p><p> </p><p>Nikola was here. Nikola was waiting for him. They wouldn’t be able to keep her out. No one could. </p><p> </p><p>He knew this was how it would end, of course. Whether the others escaped or not, she was always going to come for him. </p><p> </p><p>Bickering from behind him, something about locks. The ringmaster couldn’t hear past the rushing in his ears. </p><p> </p><p>Scratching at the door, plastic points against wood. The frame no longer shook with the force of whatever hit against it just before, and the hijabi woman took the opportunity to grab a nearby chair and shove it under the door handles, then set a box on the seat to weigh it down. Still the ringmaster couldn’t move as that <em> scratch, scratch, scratch </em>echoed out.</p><p> </p><p>He wished it didn’t sound so much like the scrape of her sharp fingers against bone. He wished the comparison was a figurative one; that he had no experience with the latter. He wished he wasn’t so painfully aware that he would choke on that sound before long, and this time there would be no stopping. </p><p> </p><p>He wished for a lot of things.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo!” </p><p> </p><p>He wished he could breathe. Move. Something beyond standing frozen like he too was carved of wax.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo, look at me.” </p><p> </p><p>Right. Right, that was him, wasn’t it? </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I wish you hadn’t run off and broken my heart like that, ringmaster! You were doing so <em> well.” </em></p><p> </p><p>No, that was him. That was him and he was a dead man walking. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo, just listen to me, yeah? We’re going to get out of here, I swear. There’s a hell of a lot of movies you’ve missed I’ve gotta show you, and if we need to tear off some mannequin arms to make it happen then that’s what we’re gonna do, but I need you to stay with me, alright?” </p><p> </p><p><em> Scratch. </em> “I’m losing my patience, my dear!” <em> Scratch, scratch, scratch. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Just look at me, Leo, right here.” </p><p> </p><p>It took some doing, but the ringmaster dragged his eyes from where they were locked on the door to meet those of the man holding it shut. </p><p> </p><p>“Good, just— just stick with me, okay? Nothing else." He signed as he spoke in an attempt to keep the ringmaster focused on him. "There’s some <em> atrocious </em>horror movies that you’ll get a kick out of, so as soon as you’re all settled in we’re making a damn movie night out of it. Sound good?”</p><p> </p><p>Before the ringmaster could do anything but stare, a scream shattered the air behind them. He flinched hard, whipping around with his arms held up and ready to lock around his head. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist stumbled back as the figure he was arguing with crumpled — <em> truly </em>crumpled, like it was made of paper. Each crack in its form shone with blinding light. If the lights in the hall shone everycolor, this was allcolor — real, false, and beyond. Even the noises outside halted as, with one last wail, the figure vanished. </p><p> </p><p>Another slow creak, and the new door opened at last to show a woman with red cat-eye glasses. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to come in?”</p><p> </p><p>“H-Helen?”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster couldn’t handle whatever the hell was going on there, not when he heard Nikola’s voice outside go hard and the pounding against the door resume with more savage intent than ever. Something about <em> Michael </em> and <em> kill me </em> and <em> no, that was </em>that the ringmaster let pass right by. It didn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going back in there,” hissed the man at the door. “Had enough the first time, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman seemed unfazed. “If you’d like to leave some other way, feel free. If you’d like to not die, I suggest you come with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, so you can trap me to wander around for days again, just with new company? Go to hell.” His voice was rough as he held fast against the door with the hijabi woman at his side.</p><p> </p><p>“That wasn’t me, that was Michael.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whoever it was, you both can get—”</p><p> </p><p>The hijabi woman interrupted as she shoved her phone back into her pocket. “I just texted Daisy that we’re taking a different exit. They’ll meet us at Georgie’s, now <em>move.”</em> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going in—” </p><p> </p><p>“You are or you die.<em> Go!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>The Archivist, after a last suspicious look at the new woman, advanced into the twisting corridors beyond. The other woman took a moment to shove their blockade firmly against the door, then dashed across the room with the other man right on her heels. </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster stayed where he was. This was the end he’d wanted, yes? The Archivist escaped. The ringmaster succeeded in that. It made no dent in the ice-cold fear filling every cell in his body, but he supposed that faced with torture there was only so much relief a distant success brought. </p><p> </p><p>He could still hear Nikola outside. Best get reacclimated to her voice on constant loop now — she wouldn’t want to leave him alone for a minute. Not her ringmaster, no. Even if she didn’t do every part of the process herself, she would be there. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo!” </p><p> </p><p>That familiar drifting feeling rolled into his head like fog. It wouldn’t last against omnipresent agony, but for now it made him feel less like he was about to collapse. Not enough, not nearly, but more than nothing. </p><p> </p><p>A hand closed on his arm. “Leo, come on!” </p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s eyes felt hot and he was so afraid his voice came in gasps, but still he smiled. “I can’t, I have to stay, I—” </p><p> </p><p>His words fell into choked silence as the woman holding the door open watched passively. </p><p> </p><p>The man who looked so like him shook his head with narrow eyes. “Like hell you are.” </p><p> </p><p>A single firm yank, and the ringmaster was dragged into the twisting nonsense halls with the man— his brother, his <em> brother </em>at his side. </p><p> </p><p>“Goodbye!” came the new woman’s pleasant voice as the doors crashed open at last. Before the ringmaster could do anything but scramble back away from Nikola’s rage, wood creaked closed and left it all behind. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>They walked.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster didn’t know where he was, but <em> where </em>never meant much to him, did it?</p><p> </p><p>He could hear the others talking. The words didn’t matter. He processed enough to flinch when one grew loud without warning, but as soon as he did it all went quiet again. </p><p> </p><p>They walked. </p><p> </p><p>He ached. Every part of him, all in their own ways. He was a walking menagerie of broken bits all cobbled together, held by nothing more than his own unshakable clawing need to <em> survive </em>and his brother’s hand on his arm. </p><p> </p><p>The hand shifted to close around his wrist. He didn’t react. Only when it began to pull at the glove he wore did he jerk out of the grip that trapped him. Didn’t look up. Didn’t look at anything but the worn carpet beneath his feet.  </p><p> </p><p>His brother said something that he couldn’t hear. He didn’t try. </p><p> </p><p>When the same fingers fell to their old place on his arm, he tensed, but relaxed by a degree when it made no move to pull off anything he wore. Not the gloves, not the jacket, nothing. Some distant part of him wondered if he should be grateful for that, but wondering at all took far too much out of him. </p><p> </p><p>They walked. The others spoke. If they said anything to him, he didn’t know it. He had no focus to spare on anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other and holding back the tidal wave in his head, hungry to crash through and drown him.</p><p> </p><p>There was no holding it back forever. Were he able to scrape up any hope it would be on the prayer that he might survive its onslaught.</p><p> </p><p>He had no hope. All he had was that same animal instinct in his chest to do whatever he must to live. </p><p> </p><p>It had carried him this far, hadn’t it? </p><p> </p><p>When he could no longer hold back the churning, ravenous flood, it would batter him about and carry him wherever it wished, but he would not drown. Whatever of him it destroyed, whatever of him was left in its aftermath, that didn’t matter because he would <em> survive. </em>The rest was secondary.</p><p> </p><p>Old yellow wood groaned as the door before them opened, and the others filed through with the ringmaster following dutifully behind. </p><p> </p><p>Things got loud again. Surprise, shock, shouted names. He wanted to press his hands over his ears to block out the too-much of it all, but if that ironwine smell hit again he’d shatter. Instead he froze in place with his eyes screwed shut, spending hope he couldn’t afford on the wish that it all might <em> stop. </em></p><p> </p><p>When a voice he half-recognized snapped out and it all fell to quiet, dull surprise rose out of the murk in his head. Normally, him wishing for mercy meant little.</p><p> </p><p>Eyes buried like knives into him, watching, always watching. He kept still. Inanimate. Blind. If he remained as he was, remained uninteresting, they would move on.</p><p> </p><p>That, or they would give him some encouragement. <em> Make </em>him be interesting. </p><p> </p><p>He could only wait.</p><p> </p><p>At another, quieter snap from the voice he knew, conversation started up once more. Tension kept him drawn like tightwire, but he allowed himself to at last open his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>His brother stood in front of him, mouth moving, but he could hear nothing but rushing blood and music. Maybe, for the ringmaster, they were one and the same. </p><p> </p><p>When his brother switched to sign, even that was almost too much to process. He caught the word <em> couch. </em> That along with the gentle tug towards one at the side of the room made what was wanted of him clear.</p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t enough in him to keep the tension as he sat. No energy to ensure that the cushions were nothing more than what they were. His brother sat next to him, which meant it was safe.</p><p> </p><p>Safe as anything could be here, at least. He knew by now that this was the place the couriers had warned him of when they took the Archivist, the one that smelled of death. The one he’d taken such pains to avoid at the very start. Were this happening to anyone else, it might’ve made for a lovely joke. </p><p> </p><p>He almost laughed at the sheer nonsense of it all anyway, but when the couch shifted under the weight of paws, he went so stiff his muscles burned.</p><p> </p><p>Was this cat stuffed? Full of sawdust and clove and marionette strings? Sent by the circus to ensure their ringmaster was alive and here for the taking? </p><p> </p><p>Part of him hoped that was the case. This place smelled of death and he knew none of its edges. The people here watched which meant they wanted and he didn’t know what and couldn’t ask. </p><p> </p><p>Back home, he knew what he was meant for. He knew their expectations and knew what happened if he failed to meet them. </p><p> </p><p>It had taken so long to learn. Could he survive that twice-over? </p><p> </p><p>He could. He would. He was nothing if not a survivor, no matter what they did. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he was grateful when his brother spoke again, and the woman with all the braids swept up the creature to put it somewhere else. Didn’t matter where. None of it mattered.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster went boneless, form slumped against his brother and eyes closed. He could almost hear creaks from his insufficient barricades against the tidal wave waiting in his head, but they held. For now.</p><p> </p><p>Another tug on his gloves, and he jerked away with a sharp inhale, eyes flying open once more.</p><p> </p><p>Crouched in front of him was the round-faced man wearing an apologetic smile. He said something about <em> Jon said </em> and <em> bleeding </em> and <em> injured, </em>but the ringmaster replied to none of it. </p><p> </p><p>When the man went quiet with an expectant look, the ringmaster realized he asked a question.</p><p> </p><p>Didn’t hear it. Messed up. Hopefully the patience the ringmaster half-remembered from this man meant he would wait before delivering consequences. </p><p> </p><p>He looked over to his brother — lost, trying to focus as best he could, and so frustrated with himself he could’ve cried.</p><p> </p><p>“He wants to check on your hands, since they’re bleeding.” His brother’s voice was slow and clear, and his signing along matched. “Jon said you had the same injuries a few days ago, so you must have bled through whatever bandages you have. Is it alright if he takes off your gloves?”</p><p> </p><p>Nonsense, most of it, but the last part he understood. </p><p> </p><p>Nod. This, he could get right.</p><p> </p><p>Pulling silkstring from the cracks should have stung. Maybe it did, somewhere far away from him. He didn’t watch, just kept his head low and leaned against the shoulder at his side. </p><p> </p><p>Someone hissed at the uncovered slashes and spiderwebbed cracks. Another asked questions he didn’t answer. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe that, in the end, was what broke him: the wet cloth pressed against his skin, or the brush of something acrid after. Maybe it was the sight of his hands wrapped over every inch in soft gauze. Maybe it was the sheer weight of the unknown — who the people around him were, truly; what they wanted from him; what they would do should he fail to deliver. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was that the person at his side was not small and cold and sharp and familiar. </p><p> </p><p>It all amounted to the same: everything was different now, and there was nothing, nothing at all he could do. </p><p> </p><p>His barricade crumbled. All crashed in.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster could only cry. His smile stayed unwavered, present, his safety net, but still he cried.</p><p> </p><p>And, when his brother wrapped an arm around his shoulders and said, “It’s alright now. You never have to go back. You’re never going back there, I swear,” the ringmaster had no words to say <em> I know. I know, I know, I know.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The former ringmaster cried, and some small part of him wished it was out of relief. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: non-graphic discussions of hand trauma, emotional manipulation, mention of torture/the whole skinning Process</p><p>in the wings: a change to the script</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. EIGHT OF CUPS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On expectations, consequence, and learning new ropes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>there's rowdy plot on the horizon, but until then we’ve got a couple quiet chapters where our boys can Vibe. warnings in the end note as always!</p><p>suggested listening: becomes the color by emily wells</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If he had expected to recognize the house Tim took him to, he would have been sorely disappointed, but at this point the man knew better than to keep expectations of any sort.</p><p> </p><p>Tim was speaking. If he’d done so on the drive over, the man hadn’t heard, but he did his best to follow now.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a second bedroom,” Tim said as he pulled out his keys. “All yours. It’s not huge, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Though it was the first words he’d spoken since leaving home, Tim hid any surprise well as he held open the front door. “Yeah, I know. Still, just let me know if you need anything.”</p><p> </p><p>The living room the man entered was a bit on the small side, but considering the whole place only needed to house one person, it made sense. Though small, it was fairly tidy and well-decorated. Thick blackout curtains hung on the front windows. There was no missing how incongruous they were with the rest of the room, but the man supposed if Tim wanted to block the world outside, he was well within his right to. </p><p> </p><p>As Tim set his keys and wallet on the side table by the door, the man paused a moment to walk around the living room, looking close at each picture hung on the wall. </p><p> </p><p>One in particular caught his attention — one with him in it. A figure he could only assume was Tim based on the hair lay facedown on a table at what looked like a tattoo parlor, flipping off the camera as another figure bent over him. The man himself sat next to Tim, face pulled into an overdramatic pout. </p><p> </p><p>“That was one of the times you came when I was getting the piece on my back done,” came Tim’s voice from behind him. He looked over as Tim joined him by the photo. “Took a good few sessions to finish, but that’s what I get for picking blackwork.”</p><p> </p><p>The man tried to remember, and for a moment thought he really, really might, but before long the kaleidoscope colors shifted to leave him with nothing more than a high pitched buzzing noise. “And… what exactly am I doing, there?”</p><p> </p><p>“Helping, so you said,” Tim answered with a short laugh. “Some people give a hand to squeeze, some people try to pump you up, but you decided to go with loud mocking whenever I cursed or whatever else.” He elbowed the man. “But weirdly enough, I think that helped more than the others.” </p><p> </p><p>At least he had that. The man had been about to decide whether he should feel some kind of retroactive guilt for being a prick, but apparently it worked. </p><p> </p><p>As he kept his slow pace around the room, he noticed a few telltale empty patches. Each small tack was still there, but the frames themselves were gone. He turned to Tim with a question on his lips, but as soon as he did so Tim left for the kitchen just beyond. </p><p> </p><p>Probably for the best. The man wasn’t sure he had the energy for much more conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Rather than follow to the kitchen, he settled on the nearby couch. Leaning into it made his shirt catch painfully on his still-stinging back, but his body felt far too heavy to bother with moving. Instead, his head tipped back to rest against the cushion with eyes closed. </p><p> </p><p>“Y’know, your bedroom is all of fifteen feet from here if you want a nap,” said Tim from behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Well, when you put it like that, sure. No idea what I was thinking.” </p><p> </p><p>Rather than bother to reply, he merely flapped a hand in dismissal from the general area he assumed Tim was. </p><p> </p><p>If Tim replied, the man didn’t know it. He was already asleep. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>When his eyes opened, it was to a faceful of olive green fabric. For a long moment he didn’t have any idea where he was, and kept still as if he never woke. Only after staying frozen and forcing himself to breathe evenly did he remember: this was Tim’s house. Tim pulled him from the troupe. Right. </p><p> </p><p>Limbs still heavy with sleep, he pushed himself upright from where he was curled on one side with back to the room. A blanket fell from its place tucked around him as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. </p><p> </p><p>Something caught against his face, and he blinked in surprise as he stared down at his fingers. Gauze. Right, the other man — Martin? — had wrapped it while they were at… at the other place. He remembered little from there, but knew he hadn’t been too cooperative. Hopefully Martin wasn’t still irritated with him for that. </p><p> </p><p>Sunshine streamed in through a crack in the heavy curtains. Still daylight, then. He must not have slept long.</p><p> </p><p>A quiet, sleepy noise drew his attention to the armchair by the couch. In it sat Tim, laptop open but dark and head propped up in one hand. A couple books laid on the ground near his feet. When the man sat up further, Tim blinked out of his doze. </p><p> </p><p>“Not sure if you know this,” the man said flatly. “But your bedroom is all of fifteen feet from here. I’ve heard they’re better for naps.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim snorted as he tapped his laptop’s trackpad. “You’d know that it’s worse sleeping out here better than I would, considering you were out for all of…” He peered at the corner of the screen. “Twenty-six hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“Congrats, Leo. Welcome to Thursday.” </p><p> </p><p>Right. Leo. That was who he was here.</p><p> </p><p>Tim leaned forward to set his laptop on the coffee table, and Leo caught the words <em> What is Deprogramming? </em>before Tim closed it. </p><p> </p><p>“Jon texted while you were asleep,” Tim mentioned as he sat back once more. “Said he thought you might have some other injuries besides your hands that need to get taken care of, but he wasn’t sure. Do you?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo considered lying to avoid whatever production Tim might make of all this, but objectively he knew that they weren’t healing as well as he was used to. If they left scars this time, he needed to at least limit the severity. Leave as few marks on his skin as possible.</p><p> </p><p>“Just some on my back. Not too much.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it. I’ll grab the first aid kit.” </p><p> </p><p>As Tim left, Leo struggled with his jacket. Sleeping in the thing wasn’t his greatest idea, but pulling it off with all these aches was no picnic either. With an inordinate amount of satisfaction he pulled himself free, then set it carefully on the back of the couch before looking in frustration at the buttons on his shirt. Couldn’t do much about those with such heavily wrapped hands, which meant the wraps had to go. </p><p> </p><p>It was only after unwinding all the strips around each finger he realized just how damn much Martin had used. Enough to affix the medicinal pads against the worst of it made sense, but was this much really necessary? </p><p> </p><p>Didn’t matter anymore, he supposed. Now he could get the buttons, Tim would see the injuries he was so worried about weren’t a big deal, and they could all move on with their day. Cut out the fuss. </p><p> </p><p>There was no sign of whatever clouds in his head made treating his hands so painless. It’d be unpleasant on the best of days, but sweat after the chaos of leaving his troupe and a long, long sleep made for a hell of an adhesive between fabric and skin. Before he could do more than pull at it and hiss under his breath, he heard Tim reenter the room and stop dead. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Jesus, </em>Leo. Here, let me—” </p><p> </p><p>Steps, then Leo felt hands brush against his shoulders. He knew, logically, that it was Tim, but the sudden touch of cold, cold fingers made him go stiff, arms up by a few degrees and angled back. Quick change. He knew how this worked. </p><p> </p><p>Rather than take his shirt fully as he expected, Tim stopped moving. “You okay?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo said nothing. That wasn’t part of it. </p><p> </p><p>Tim, it seemed, ran on a different script. He came around the front with a cautious look on his face. “Leo, what’s up?”</p><p> </p><p>A flicker of eye contact. Look away. “Are you going to take the shirt or not?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you want the help since it’s… a little stuck to everything, but if you’d rather do it yourself, that’s fine.” Though Tim’s struggle to not look at the scar up Leo’s chest was practically audible, he kept composure well enough. </p><p> </p><p>The stiffness drained away, and Leo began to tug once more at his sleeves, self-conscious. “I’ll do it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure, sure.” Rather than hover and watch Leo struggle, Tim busied himself with combing through the first aid kit. </p><p> </p><p>With a final wince, Leo pulled the fabric from his back like he was tearing off a plaster. Just as wine-stained as his gloves, unfortunately, so rather than make a tidy stack with his jacket, he put it instead beside the discarded gauze. </p><p> </p><p>A pause, then Leo cleared his throat. “Sorry. Your, um… Your hands were cold.” </p><p> </p><p>The flash of something hard in Tim’s eyes lasted less than a second, but Leo was good at picking up those little signals. Had been for as long as he could remember. </p><p> </p><p>Do not complain about cold hands. Do not let that distract from whatever needed to be done at a given time. He understood. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be sure to use warm water when I wash them then, yeah?” A nicety, no doubt. Not a <em> lie, </em> just something said out of politeness, the same as ending a conversation with <em> have a nice day </em>solely because that was how conversation worked. Leo considered telling Tim not to worry about it, but wasn’t sure if that’d constitute the same as a complaint since it harped on the same nonissue. Silence was safer. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim looked up again from the kit, his eyes fell on the discarded shirt and gauze next to it. “Did— Did you take the bandages off your hands?”</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t undo the buttons with them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I would’ve—” Tim cut himself off with a short sigh. “It’s fine, they needed to be changed anyway. C’mon, the kitchen has better light.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo followed as Tim led the way, conscious the whole time of how cold the air was against his skin. Part of him was tempted to snatch up his performer’s jacket and put it back on as they passed, but that’d defeat the whole point of all this. </p><p> </p><p>Once they were both settled, Leo in one chair with Tim in another just behind, Tim paused his quick prep.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, do you… know why some parts here look like cracks rather than, y’know, bruises or something? I won’t ask where they came from, but… Honestly, not sure if I should be using bandages or ceramic glue.” He attempted to laugh like it was nothing more than a joke, but there was no hiding the unsettled tone beneath. </p><p> </p><p>Leo shrugged, then winced. “I don’t know. That’s happened for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>“What did you use for them, uh… there?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not anything, really.” </p><p> </p><p>“What? Nothing?” A slight edge came into Tim’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>“They didn’t ever take this long to heal, I— I think. No scars or anything either. I think it just… worked different, there. Bandages should be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Tim shifted behind Leo, and a moment later he felt another cold touch as Tim applied what Leo assumed was some kind of antibacterial cream. “Guessing it’s the same for, uh, blood? That it’s also different now.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your blood, it’s… It doesn’t look the same, really? Like, it’s thinner, and the color’s a little off. Not by much for either, but still.”</p><p> </p><p>Strange. Leo knew that deep wine color that stained his gloves and shirt well, of course, but hadn’t thought about how it wasn’t the same scarlet one might expect. </p><p> </p><p>Looked like he hadn’t needed to change his costume at all to become more like the troupe. Exposure did the trick just as well. Leo wondered if it was wrong for him to take a sick sort of comfort in that. </p><p> </p><p>When he said nothing, Tim continued. “I mean, that’s why I decided not to take you to a hospital or something. I’m not exactly a doctor, but I’m also not keen on you becoming some new medical marvel.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” </p><p> </p><p>“Safe to guess you don’t know what’s up there, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>After one more press of bandage to skin, Leo heard the chair behind him creak as Tim sat back. “Done. Let’s get your hands wrapped up, then I’ll grab you a shirt. Sound good?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” He turned in his own chair to see Tim looking at him with an odd expression. </p><p> </p><p>“You alright? You went quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>There it was again, the <em> said-something-wrong </em>face. “You don’t have to— It’s fine. Just want to be sure. D’you need anything before I start?”</p><p> </p><p>A shirt would be nice, but Tim already said he would earn that after finishing here. There was a clear order of operations. A script.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, and after a long look, Tim nodded in return and went to work. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever composure kept Tim from looking at the scar on Leo’s chest before must have fled. His dark eyes flicked up every so often — never long enough to truly study it, more like a magnet he had to push against. Every time he did so, his jaw grew tighter. Between rolls of gauze he shook out his hands and flexed his fingers, and at one point without warning he went pale, then shook his head in the same way.</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s shoulders curled in and his elbows settled close together, but with his hands commandeered like this, there was nothing he could do to cover the matching lines up his arms. Part of him wanted to apologize, but at this point he knew that wasn’t what Tim wanted him to say for this sort of thing.</p><p> </p><p>Would it have killed him to tell Leo what he <em> did </em>want, if not that?</p><p> </p><p>The irritation was unfair, he knew. Tim shouldn’t have to hold his hand through everything. Leo would figure it out, and until then he would stay quiet.</p><p> </p><p>After what felt like an eternity, Tim sat back and ran a hand down his face, then gave Leo a tight smile. </p><p> </p><p>“There we are. Let me grab you a shirt, one sec.”</p><p> </p><p>As Tim left, Leo studied the wraps. Not quite as neat as Martin’s, and again, far too much used. Bit of a waste, really. What could Leo do with his hands made useless?</p><p> </p><p>Tim came back in, stopped and looked at the shirt he held, and said, “Wait, sorry.” With that, he left once more. Odd.</p><p> </p><p>Leo looked back down. He’d just take off the excess later, then. Keep some level of mobility.</p><p> </p><p>Again, Tim returned, this time with a different shirt. He tossed it Leo’s way.</p><p> </p><p>“Might be a bit short in the sleeves, but I thought you’d probably want longer ones instead of a T-shirt.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo nodded as he hastily tugged the deep red fabric over his head. Tim made no move to help this time, which he appreciated. It ended up falling just shy of his wrists, but having something at all was far better. He could live with too-short sleeves. </p><p> </p><p>He looked up at Tim. “This works. Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. We’ll get you more of your own stuff soon, but ‘til then.” Tim turned on his heel to go back into the living room. “It does mean we can finally get rid of this damn thing. I’m thinking we burn it, maybe? Just tossing it in a bin seems anticlimactic.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo followed in time to see Tim lift his performer’s jacket, and his heart stopped in his chest. Before Tim could rattle off any more methods of destruction, Leo darted forward and snatched it from his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not getting rid of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not tossing it out, or burning it, or whatever the hell else you were going to say.” The words felt too harsh in his mouth, but Leo made no attempt to soften them. </p><p> </p><p>“I— Okay. Okay, sure.” Tim’s hands remained up in a show of surrender, and the startled look on his face made Leo wonder if he’d done something wrong again. With this, it was hard to care. “Just assumed you’d want to, but you don’t, which is— fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Was he supposed to want to? Why? True, he wasn’t <em> there </em>anymore, but why did that mean he had to destroy every single reminder of it? People kept mementos all the time. Keepsakes. He couldn’t keep the stained gloves or the shirt, but the jacket was spared. If it had stains of its own, they were impossible to see against fabric the same color. </p><p> </p><p>Still looking off-kilter, Tim lowered his hands. “Let me show you where your room is, so you can… hang it up, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence, then Leo gave a short nod. He could feel the <em> said-something-wrong </em>look settle heavy against his shoulder blades, but this outweighed that. </p><p> </p><p>The room was, as Tim said, not particularly large, but Leo didn’t care. None of it looked as if it was chosen with him in mind. </p><p> </p><p>Or, it was, and he didn’t know enough to realize. Maybe the blue of the walls was his favorite color. Maybe he always slept with two pillows on the bed, no more and no less. Maybe he preferred blinds to curtains. Maybe the room was tailored for a man who didn’t exist anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe, maybe he was overthinking all this. Maybe a room was just a room and a look was just a look and however long he slept wasn’t nearly long enough. </p><p> </p><p>When he went silent for what even he knew was too long, Tim continued with false cheer. “Still working on my interior design license, but I like to dream big. If you want to change anything around, go nuts.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s— It’s fine. It’s good.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, sparing my feelings, I get it. No, no, do whatever— I don’t know, feng shui? Is that still a thing?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re a middle-aged white lady, I guess. Or actually Chinese.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim snapped his fingers. “Well, unless you’re secretly either of those, guess there’s nothing to worry about.” </p><p> </p><p>“My real name is Mary Beth,” Leo replied with a bland look. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim winced and clapped him on the shoulder. “Stick with Leo.” The humor slipped away as circumstance came creeping back, loathe to be ignored for banter. “I’m gonna be home for the day, but I need to go back into work tomorrow. You mind coming with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Part of Leo was tempted to make another joke about his new alter ego Mary Beth, how he’d be far too busy embroidering psalms onto household objects or something, but he didn’t have the energy for anything more than a nod and quick, “Sure.” </p><p> </p><p>“Just shout if you need anything.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, Leo was left alone in his room. </p><p> </p><p>His room. All his.</p><p> </p><p>The hell was he supposed to do with that?</p><p> </p><p>His jacket seemed lonely and laughably out of place in the otherwise empty closet. With no proper light to catch it, the gold epaulettes and embroidery looked dull, and its rich wine fabric was almost black in the dim. </p><p> </p><p>He left the closet door open and sat on the bed across from it, unable to look away. </p><p> </p><p>Should he get rid of it? Tim expected him to. Maybe not now, but he might suggest as much again later. Was Leo supposed to agree?</p><p> </p><p>There was no denying that the costume was ill-suited for the set. Here, he was Leo, and Leo was not a performer — or, if he was, one of a different sort. Not one that wore gold and wine. </p><p> </p><p>Despite that, the mere thought of destroying it made his heart pound off-beat to this new place’s tempo.</p><p> </p><p>He might… He might need it again someday. That was all. He wouldn’t, couldn’t get rid of it. </p><p> </p><p>Just in case.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>It was startling to wake when he hadn’t intended to fall asleep in the first place, but at least this time it took mere moments for Leo to remember where he was.</p><p> </p><p>When he made his stumbling way into the kitchen, Tim looked up from his place at the stove. </p><p> </p><p>“Sleeping Beauty awakens at last! I was about to go through your friends and find whoever might be able to give true love’s kiss.” He flipped whatever was in his pan into the air, and looked very self-satisfied when he caught it again. “You still like pancakes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Only one way to find out, I guess.” Leo sat at one of the stools by the counter. He nodded to a plastic bag nearby, small but bulging with what looked like fabric. “What’s this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Martin stopped by yesterday,” Tim explained as he set a plate and bottle of syrup in front of Leo. “He said he had to guess at the size, but figured you didn’t have much to wear, and since we haven’t gotten a chance to get anything, he grabbed staples. Pancakes any good?”</p><p> </p><p>Mouth very full, Leo could only give a thumbs up as he dragged the bag close enough to paw through. Jeans, a few shirts, a hoodie. He wondered how much it would cost. </p><p> </p><p>Tim set his pan on a back burner, then leaned against the counter with his own stack. “If any doesn’t fit, we can get something else after I’m done at work. Unless you take another monster nap, anyway. Swear I could’ve vacuumed the whole house while you were out and you wouldn’t have noticed a thing. When’s the last time you <em> slept?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“On your couch.”</p><p> </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Tim said, “Before that, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo shook his head. “I know. The one at your old flat, that’s when.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Leo, that was four years ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes…?” </p><p> </p><p>Tim lowered his plate with a furrowed brow, breakfast forgotten. “Generally, not sleeping that long kills people.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, it was rough when no one let me the first week or so, but I got used to it.” Leo took another bite. Tim might forget his pancakes, but Leo would not. “I think I’m just hard to kill.” </p><p> </p><p>By his face, Tim didn’t take much comfort in that.</p><p> </p><p>Leo set down his fork, frustration boiling over. “Tell me what I said.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You have that look that means I said something wrong. What was it?”</p><p> </p><p>The look again, stronger. He wasn’t supposed to ask, then? It made sense — hell, just yesterday he was the one who said Tim shouldn’t have to hold his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I— Okay, I won’t ask. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s…” Tim set down his plate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>Doubtful. Leo waited as Tim gathered his thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>“Some things you say, they— they show what kinds of things you’ve been through while you were there. Things you shouldn’t have had to go through.” Tim’s arms folded, and he didn’t look up from where he was staring at the counter. “And it hurt you more than it ever did me, but knowing what you had to survive… That also hurts. Differently.” </p><p> </p><p>None of that was any kind of direction. Leo wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with it. “So do you want me to not say things like—”</p><p> </p><p>“You say whatever you need to say, Leo,” Tim interrupted. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk about it all. You say whatever you need to, and I’ll try and stop doing anything that makes you feel like you can’t. Deal?”</p><p> </p><p>Weird. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Leo, not when it still told him nothing about what he was supposed to do, but Tim looked insistent.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, alright. Deal.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Good.” Silence, then: “You want more pancakes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim.” Leo pushed his plate forward. The odd, sick feeling that he was missing something still clung to the inside of his ribs, but for now he would live with it. “I absolutely want more pancakes.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>  </p><p>  </p><p>Getting to the Eye’s temple — the Institute, Tim called it — was a simple matter once he redressed Leo’s hands. Changing into the clothes Martin brought was too annoying with them on, and though Tim looked a bit frustrated all he said was, “Well, not like it matters if I’m late. What’s Elias going to do, fire me?” </p><p> </p><p>He used too much gauze again. Leo could already tell these wouldn’t last long.</p><p> </p><p>It was only after a somewhat relaxed morning that Leo was able to see just how tense being in the tunnels made Tim, and how stepping into the Institute itself brought no relief. </p><p> </p><p>For the latter, he understood. Whatever strange comfort came with the nonsense of the tunnels, the Institute didn’t share it. At least he knew what eyes watched him onstage. He knew what they wanted and he knew how to read their mood as easy as breathing — beyond that, how to take it in hand and change it. No one left his shows dissatisfied. </p><p> </p><p>Here, there was no telling who watched. He could assume Elias of course, but Elias must have things to do beyond watching Leo and Tim, right? </p><p> </p><p>If he tried, Leo could almost make himself believe that. Why on Earth would the head of the Eye’s temple, the antithesis to the Circus of the Other and all it stood for, ever want to keep an eye on that circus’s former ringmaster wandering his Institute? Ridiculous. </p><p> </p><p>He could only hope they wouldn’t cross paths. No telling what would push Elias to speak that name again, and with him, Leo wasn’t interested in watching and waiting to find where his edges were. Not if he didn’t have to. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until Tim’s hand knocked into his own that he realized he was pulling at the wrappings there. Tim didn’t hit with any force, just enough to disrupt the fingers scratching between strips. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey. I know it itches. Suck it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, alright, mum.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim elbowed him. Leo elbowed him back, harder. Tim responded in kind, and when his strike only nicked Leo’s arm and hit just wrong against where his side met his back, Leo hid a wince well as he went for a full-shoulder shove. </p><p> </p><p>“If it’s all the same to you both, I’d prefer no brawling in the archives,” called a familiar voice from behind them. Tim’s easy smile vanished as they both turned to face the Archivist with Martin at his side. </p><p> </p><p>“Heaven forbid anyone have fun at work,” Tim replied. Leo wondered if he should apologize to the Archivist, but decided to let Tim handle the conversation. He could figure out the rules here by proxy.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he decided that, Martin looked right to him. “Good to see you, Leo! Did the stuff I brought fit okay? I know it wasn’t much, but I thought it’d be better than nothing.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, they’re good. Thanks.” The longer shirt sleeves weren’t quite long enough, but Leo was used to that. Jeans, the same — with his lanky build, shopping for those was a nightmare even when he was doing it himself, never mind a man who he spent a couple hours at most with. The hoodie had no such issue. Judging by how the cuffs half-covered his hands, Martin must have gotten a size up from the shirts. Best way to be sure it covered everything Leo might not want to see, he supposed. </p><p> </p><p>Martin smiled. “Glad to hear it.” Nothing about cost or repayment. Safe to assume he’d cash in when he needed something, then. </p><p> </p><p>As the four went into the archives together, Leo could feel the Archivist watching him. Nothing new, there. Leo looked over to him, but as soon as they made eye contact, the Archivist broke it and continued forward. He clearly wanted to ask something; he always did. Leo just wished he’d get it over with. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist broke away from the group first to make his way towards a door Leo hadn’t noticed before, Martin on his heels. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Jon? I mean, you— you probably should take it easy today, right? Maybe go home early?” </p><p> </p><p>From Leo’s side, Tim scoffed under his breath as Martin continued to fuss. “You’d think Martin would get tired of being told to leave him alone.” He crossed to one desk and, after a moment of unsure glancing around, Leo pointed at the one next to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that desk okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim looked over, then stilled for a moment. “...No. No, that one’s empty. Go for it.”</p><p> </p><p>His words and his expression didn’t quite match, but considering Leo couldn’t read the latter, he figured following the former was safe enough. </p><p> </p><p>After a moment of scanning the room and wondering just how many eyes might hide in the walls, Martin returned from the Archivist’s office. “Hey, Leo? Jon had some questions real quick. He said he wanted to get a better understanding of how things worked, y’know… <em> there.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim answered before Leo could. “Tell him he can piss off.” His mouth was set in a hard line. “Leo’s been out of there for<em> two days, </em>Jon doesn’t get to interrogate him.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s— it’s fine, Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?” Tim asked with a cautious look at Leo. “You don’t have to go along with it.” </p><p> </p><p>Except that, yes, he did. This was the Archivist’s territory. Not Leo’s. Leo needed to follow the Archivist’s rules here — questions and all. </p><p> </p><p>“Him asking me questions was the only reason I figured out you were here. I’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t seem reassured. “Do you want me to come with you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Leo replied. “You’ve got work to do.” </p><p> </p><p>Another short scoff. “Not really, but sure. You can leave whenever you want, okay? If anything he asks is too much, or if he starts getting Archivist-y.” He shot the closed door a dark look with that, and Martin sighed. </p><p> </p><p>“He won’t do that, Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know as well as me that it’s just <em> instinct </em>for him.” </p><p> </p><p>“He won’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo wasted no time to consider that. The compulsion wasn’t so bad, really. He could get through one conversation. “I’ll be fine, Tim. It’s just some questions.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Just some questions.” Tim’s voice went heavy with doubt, but he shook his head as he relented. “Alright, just remember I’m right out here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure thing.” </p><p> </p><p>As Leo stepped into the Archivist’s office, he could hear Tim and Martin trading what sounded like the beginnings of a tired argument, but he shut the door behind him before he could hear much. It wasn’t his business. </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s first glance up to him was a wary one. When Leo leaned against the wall at his back rather than take a seat, the Archivist hid a grimace with little success and shifted in his chair. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you mind sitting?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Alright.” It was only fair, Leo supposed. They had plenty of conversations with Leo standing over the seated Archivist.</p><p> </p><p>“You wanted to ask me about the circus?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist cleared his throat. “Yes. Largely about names.” </p><p> </p><p>Though every part of him felt ready to bolt, Leo swallowed that down. This could go many different ways, he knew, but none ended well that he could see. “What about them?”</p><p> </p><p>When the Archivist looked up from the papers on his desk, his eyes widened. “Oh, I— I’m not going to say yours. We’ll stick with Leo, of course, I just— I wanted to ask about things more generally. I won’t say it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” Leo didn’t relax.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well…” Another short cough as the Archivist shuffled things about on his desk with no rhyme or reason. “I know that, on the whole, those from the Stranger don’t use names as anything more than part of a costume, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” The name traveled with the costume like a birthmark. </p><p> </p><p>“But, when someone wore a particular skin, they had no trouble using the name with it even if it wasn’t considered their true name.”</p><p> </p><p>“No one had true names. Just their role in the show.”</p><p> </p><p>“...You did.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo felt sick. “No, I didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“An— An original name, then”</p><p> </p><p>Better, though not by much. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know Breekon and Hope used names plenty, and the ones the anglerfish took did—”</p><p> </p><p>“The what?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist blinked at him, surprised by the interruption. Leo needed to be better about that. “The anglerfish? The one that waited in alleys and such, and used stolen skins as a sort of lure to bring in new victims. Sarah Baldwin was one, and Daniel Rawlings. Quite a few others, as well.” </p><p> </p><p>“We called it the dollmaker.” Far better than <em> anglerfish, </em>to his mind. </p><p> </p><p>“The dollmaker, then. It didn’t have any trouble with names, based on the statements we have.”</p><p> </p><p>“They didn’t use them around the troupe. None of us did. Everyone was referred to by their role — the dollmaker, the couriers, everyone,” Leo explained. “Nikola’s the only one called by name, but she’s different. We might use a name if referring to a specific costume, but that’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist nodded, looking thoughtful. “But none of them ever reacted <em> adversely </em>to a name being used. Not like…”</p><p> </p><p>“Like me.” None of the questions the Archivist asked so far pulled anything from him like threads, but still Leo felt loose at the seams, everything inside eager to burst free with one wrong tug. </p><p> </p><p>“Right." I was wondering why that might be. I mean, clearly they’re capable of dissociating names from subjects if how Breekon and Hope took that man’s name is anything to go by.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t know what he meant as far as the couriers went, but he certainly knew about the process the Archivist referred to. “They are. That’s why.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t follow.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a one-time trick. For me, I kept my skin, and names stick to skin. Like you said, they travel with the costume. When you keep one, taking away the other gets harder.” </p><p> </p><p>“So, some sort of ability of the Stranger is—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not supernatural, Archivist.” Leo’s mouth tasted like sawdust, and his lungs felt full of the same. “You hear it, something bad happens. You say it, something worse. Eventually you don’t want anything to do with it anymore, and you can start over. Like… like sanding the varnish off something before repainting it.”</p><p> </p><p>“...I see.” The Archivist’s brows knit. “I can’t say I agree with the analogy, but I see your point.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want me to use, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>It seemed like a simple question to Leo. “If you don’t want me to use that, what do you want me to say instead?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist looked no less confused. “You— You can use whichever you want. I personally wouldn’t compare you to furniture, but if that’s what feels most accurate to you, by all means.” </p><p> </p><p>Wasn’t this whole place about knowledge, and things being black and white? Why was everyone who worked here incapable of giving a straight answer to anything? </p><p> </p><p>When Leo didn’t say anything, the Archivist returned to the papers on his desk. “That was all. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t move from the chair. After a long moment of muttering over whatever nonsense he held, the Archivist looked back up. “Did… you have a question?”</p><p> </p><p>“Am I free to go?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist’s head tilted with brows knit once again. “Yes…? You’re free to go whenever you like. I’m not going to keep you here.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo couldn’t help a very quiet scoff as he stood — Tim’s influence, no doubt — but in the equally quiet room there was no missing it. The Archivist's lips pursed.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not a prisoner. You realize that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“And where else am I supposed to go?” Leo replied as he grabbed the doorknob. “Can’t go back. I’m not exactly primed and ready to integrate back into society. Instead I can just… be here. Here, where everyone watches me all the time and more than a few want me to die.”</p><p> </p><p>“No one—”</p><p> </p><p>“Look me in the eye and tell me that there’s no one here who’d be glad to see me dead. Hell, that there’s no one who would be glad to do it themselves.”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist couldn’t. No surprise there. </p><p> </p><p>“Well. Daisy and I aren’t exactly bosom friends, either. You’re not the only one she’d like to dispose of.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “You </em>actually have some power here.”</p><p> </p><p>At that, the Archivist almost laughed. “That’s news to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Meaning there was a more complicated dynamic here than Leo had read. No doubt that Elias was at the top of whatever ladder might exist, but Leo assumed the Archivist was just below him. Maybe that didn’t give as many benefits as one would think.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter. They both had a considerable amount more than Leo. </p><p> </p><p>“If that’s all, Archivist—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist rubbed his eyes briefly, like he hadn’t slept at all the night before. “Just… call me Jon. No need for the title. You’ll be Leo, I’ll be Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon. See you around, I’m sure.”</p><p> </p><p>As soon as Leo reentered the main room, Tim’s eyes snapped up to him. Leo had no time to shake any lingering tension, and there was no way Tim missed that.</p><p> </p><p>He cut a glare towards the Archivist’s— no, <em> Jon’s </em>door. “What did he want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Asked about names.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you <em> kidding—” </em>Tim got to his feet without hesitation. “The one g-ddamn thing I told him not to—”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t say mine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Still, he should damn well know better!” </p><p> </p><p>Martin stood at his own desk. “Tim, I’m sure it—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim ignored him and crossed to Jon’s office, slamming the door behind him. In seconds, Leo could hear the beginnings of a row. </p><p> </p><p>With a heavy sigh, Martin looked over to Leo. “They’ll be at it for a while. Do you mind helping me out with some of the older files?”</p><p> </p><p>Cashing in what he was owed, then. Seemed painless enough. “Sure.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin led him to another door off to the side. The small room they entered smelled of must and old paper, and every sheet Leo could see was yellow with age.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been going through the boxes in here and trying to put some of the more fragile pages in plastic sleeves so they don’t get more damaged. I want to try and transcribe the ones that’re hard to read because of that damage or whatever else,” Martin explained as he held out a box of plastic gloves. “But I figured we should first make sure they don’t just— just fall apart because we breathed too hard, or something, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right." The shelves around them were carefully labeled, but Leo had no idea what any of the labels meant. Half of them had color-coded tabs sticking out at random. Others were full of individual folders, all with their own incomprehensible designations. “...How exactly is everything here sorted?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fantastic question,” Martin said with a tired smile as he pulled out one box and set it on a table in the middle of the room, then grabbed another and set it on the other side, assumedly for Leo. “If you can figure any of it out, I’d love to hear it. We’re pretty sure the archivist before Jon used some kind of coded system, but so far we haven’t found any keys.” </p><p> </p><p>Finding the sense in the nonsense, then. “I’ll let you know if I notice anything.” </p><p> </p><p>After a quick example of what Martin considered in need of the extra protection and how to get each page in the sleeve without further damage, they got to work. </p><p> </p><p>“So, how’ve you been settling in?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo wasn’t quite sure what Martin was looking for, but like all his others the question felt weightless. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” He tugged on the wraps on his hands — difficult to do work this fine with his fingers covered by both gauze and gloves. Before he could dislodge any, Martin glanced up again.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, careful! I don’t know the exact protocols for most archives, but I think getting blood on documents is probably frowned on.” There was some light humor to the words, but Leo grasped his point all the same — do not scratch under bandages here. </p><p> </p><p>G-d, they itched, though. Soon as they were done, then. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re fine!” Martin smiled again. “I know they’ve got to be a pain. Jon and Tim were both <em> nightmares </em>when they were all wrapped up after Prentiss attacked. I swear I was thirty seconds away from just carrying a spray bottle on hand and spraying them like they’re— I don’t know, housecats or something every time they picked at any.”</p><p> </p><p>At the image of a stern-faced Martin spritzing Tim to subsequent hisses, Leo laughed. He’d have to ask Tim later what Martin was referring to. “I don’t think that would have worked on Tim. He’d just do it more to spite you.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin rolled his eyes. “So rebellious.”</p><p> </p><p>“He had a punk phase in secondary school. Does this page need a sleeve?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm, yeah, just to be on the safe side,” Martin said as he glanced it over with a growing smile. “A punk phase?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep. Nothing too crazy with his hair since I… I think a friend asked him to grow it out? I don’t remember.”</p><p> </p><p>“What did he have, then?” There was that tone of quiet coaxing Leo remembered from when he and Martin had talked in the Institute break room before everything. No pressure, only curiosity. </p><p> </p><p>“Plenty of those studded bracelets and all. He had this jacket he got at some charity shop too, I think, that he put a bunch of patches on.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim can sew?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, if you want patches put on a jacket and don’t really care how neat they are, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin laughed. “Is that when he got his ear piercings?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm. He had a tongue piercing too, but as soon as our mum found out, it— it didn’t last long, I don’t think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your parents weren’t fans of the whole look?” Martin asked as he tapped a stack of papers together and replaced them in the box.</p><p> </p><p>“Our dad didn’t care much, I think? Except nail polish and eyeliner, those he didn’t like. Our mum didn’t like any of it, but it was the tongue piercing where she really put her foot down. I think at that point they got how stubborn Tim was about that sort of thing.” Leo slipped another page into a plastic sleeve, then flexed his fingers. He felt like he was wearing mitts. “They certainly had enough arguments about his hair to get it by then.”</p><p> </p><p>At that Martin made an odd expression. Sad, maybe? Had Leo said something wrong? </p><p> </p><p>Before he could ask, Martin continued. “I bet all the people at that publishing house he used to work at thought he was so straight-laced, too. There’s not much of a dress code around here, but must’ve been one there.”</p><p> </p><p>“He might have gone for the shirt-and-tie look there, but there’s no way he wore plain socks. I’m not even sure he owns any plain pairs. They’re all stupid novelty socks.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin laughed again. “Alright, true.” With that, he tucked his last folder into the box, then glanced over to see Leo doing the same. “We can pause for now, I think. Those two have either calmed down or shouted themselves hoarse and honestly, I don’t think I care which!” </p><p> </p><p>At Martin’s sheer exasperation, Leo gave his own laugh, much smaller than Martin’s. He wasn’t wrong about how equal the possibilities were. </p><p> </p><p>Back in the main room, Tim sat at his desk with mouth tight, and judging by his slight movement his knee was bouncing in agitation. The door to Jon’s office was closed.</p><p> </p><p>Martin looked between Tim and the office with a small sigh, then crossed the room to the door. His knock was soft and voice softer, so Leo couldn’t hear a word. </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s short, bitter laugh at Martin’s choice was clear as day, though if Martin heard it before he slipped inside the office, he gave no sign. </p><p> </p><p>“I…” Leo hoped his guess for what bothered Tim was correct. “I’m sure he just thought that since I was here to talk to you, he’d go to Jon first.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Tim’s eyes were trained on his computer, but in a blank stare rather than movement as if he were reading anything. “That’s what he’d do either way.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence, broken only when Tim closed his laptop harder than was probably wise.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to get out of here?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo narrowed his eyes. “We’ve been here for, what, an hour?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep. Plenty long enough.” Tim looked unbothered as he shoved his laptop in his bag. “As long as I’m here every day I’m supposed to be, work <em> most </em>hours, Elias doesn’t say anything.” </p><p> </p><p>“He… seems like he’s bad at this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Running an Institute? Yeah. Being a creepy magic psychopath, though, he’d got that in check. Apparently that’s all you need around here.”</p><p> </p><p>Together they made their way out of the room, though Leo turned when he heard the office door open to see Martin, watching with resignation. Leo gave him an aborted shrug, and Martin nodded in return like he understood whatever Leo meant to convey; as if Leo even knew himself.</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t look back. </p><p> </p><p>He said nothing as they navigated the tunnels, and back in his car his fingers drummed on the wheel with no rhythm. The only time he spoke was to swear at length when someone swerved without warning in front of him, and to tell Leo to cut it out when Leo began pulling at the wraps on his hands. </p><p> </p><p>One of his agitated moods, then. The sort he used to go to the gym to work through — but that was a routine four years old. No way to tell if Leo suggesting it now would do anything but irritate him further. </p><p> </p><p>By the time they got to Tim’s house, Leo had unwound and rewound a strip of gauze from his thumb enough that it was stretched to the point of uselessness. Tim had no quips for him as he changed the bindings this time, only the lines of tension around his eyes that showed up without fail whenever he was stressed.</p><p> </p><p>Tim did go to the gym in the end, and though he offered to bring Leo along, Leo remembered him preferring to be alone there when in this state. Leo could entertain himself. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t do so <em> well, </em>as it happened. After turning on the television and turning it off again minutes later when nothing held his attention, he poked around the bookshelves and again came up empty. Plenty of dry-looking books on architecture, which Leo hadn’t even known Tim cared about. </p><p> </p><p>People changed, he supposed. Leo could walk a tightrope with his eyes closed. Tim read books about architecture. Picking up skills and hobbies was the nature of time. </p><p> </p><p>Stacked by the chair where Tim fell asleep the other day were the same books that Leo had noticed before, all under the name Hassan. They looked even drier than the architecture ones, so Leo didn’t bother to examine closer. </p><p> </p><p>The house wasn’t big, and Leo could only wander its single level so many times before he felt a bit stir crazy. </p><p> </p><p>Well. Tim wasn’t here to snip at him for pulling off all these obnoxiously restricting bandages, so Leo might as well. He’d just rewrap them before Tim got home and hope Tim had tired himself out enough that he wouldn’t notice when Leo used a much more sensible amount. </p><p> </p><p>An altogether reasonable plan, had one of the cuts not reopened when Leo pulled the wrong way on one pad underneath the wraps. He only realized when he felt a drop hit the top of his foot, and when he looked down, saw the trail of dark, obvious spots behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Bafflingly, his first thought was how the little wine-colored flecks on the carpet perfectly suited Mary Beth. Must be Catholic, if she was hitting the pinot at noon on a Friday. If he could make that into a joke funny enough, maybe Tim wouldn’t be so pissed about the stains. </p><p> </p><p>White wine was supposed to neutralize, right? Except, if Tim had any white wine in the house, Leo would be stunned, and it wasn’t as if the dark trail still stubbornly welling between his fingers was wine. It was blood, kind of. Sort-of-blood.</p><p> </p><p>Part of him idly wondered why he didn’t have much interest in what it <em> was, </em>and what about it had changed. Maybe that was because wondering meant one expected there to be a sensible answer. Leo knew better than that. </p><p> </p><p>Right as he thought that, he heard a car pull up outside. </p><p> </p><p>Some things still did follow sense — namely, that if Tim left, he would at some point return. </p><p> </p><p>Half of Leo wanted to scramble for something to hide the stains, hide his hands, hide it all. The other half knew he could only wait. There was no hiding.</p><p> </p><p>When Tim came in the door, he looked a degree less stressed than he had when leaving, but it didn’t last. Not when he saw Leo, wide-eyed, holding a towel against his palm and dark stains on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Tim looked at him, at his hands, at the floor, and let out a long, slow breath. His eyes closed and he rolled his neck, then went right for the kitchen. “Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>Silent, Leo followed. </p><p> </p><p>Throughout the whole process of rebandaging, Tim didn’t speak. His breath was far too measured, like he was making a point of keeping it slow and even. Leo wondered if that was supposed to assuage the anxiety thrumming under his skin.</p><p> </p><p>When Tim finished, he sat back and finally looked at him. “Why do you keep doing that?” It was spoken more as a statement than a question.</p><p> </p><p>Leo could only shrug.</p><p> </p><p>“Great. Cut it out, then, or they’re never going to heal.” He sounded tired. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until Tim was almost out of the room that Leo replied. “I don’t care.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why does it matter to you?”</p><p> </p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I don’t care about it, why do you? Why does it <em> matter?!” </em> Leo didn’t know why the words flew out of his mouth, nor where their sudden heat came from.</p><p> </p><p>Tim pinned him with an incredulous look. “Because you’re injured, Leo, and generally when people <em> get injured, </em>you treat the injury.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, <em> people! </em> People, Tim, so can you piss off and find a <em> person </em>to mother hen?” </p><p> </p><p>“What—”</p><p> </p><p>Not what he meant to say. Not what he wanted to say. Not what would get the right reaction. “You’re wasting your time and you know it, so stop bothering!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not—”</p><p> </p><p>“Unless you’re just worried about your damn carpet, is that it? Then, sorry, but that’s plenty ruined too, so you’re too late to—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim cut him off with a smack of his palm against the doorframe. <em> “Leo, </em>let me—”</p><p> </p><p>The air rang with silence as Leo froze, eyes trained on Tim’s hand. Leo couldn’t make himself look away in full, but as his attention flicked off and back in short bursts, he saw that Tim looked ill.  </p><p> </p><p>“I—” Tim took another deep breath, much different from before. “I’m going to get some air, okay, and when I come back, can we talk?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn't say a word as he went to sit on the couch, stock-still. His eyes locked on some distant point straight ahead. He heard Tim hesitate behind him, then the front door closed with a quiet click. </p><p> </p><p>Part of Leo wondered why he’d even said the things he did. The rest could think of nothing but music. </p><p> </p><p>There was no telling how long it was before Tim returned, but in that time Leo didn’t move. He didn’t pick at his bandages. He allowed himself to breathe, but beyond that, he did nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Tim was quiet as he sat on the opposite end of the couch. Leo couldn’t read his face when he let himself look over. Somehow that was worse than anger — if there was anger, then Leo would have some clue as to what Tim felt and what he might do because of it. This guarded contemplation? He had no idea what to expect. No way to prepare himself for a blow he couldn’t see. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim broke the silence at last, Leo held very still. </p><p> </p><p>“I know you don’t remember a whole lot from growing up, but…” </p><p> </p><p>A flicker of emotion passed over Tim’s face as he trailed off, too fast for Leo to catch. Was that the anger? Something else? The sheer multitude of unknown possibilities made his mouth go dry.</p><p> </p><p>“You remember how after our parents split up, we’d go back and forth between their houses?”</p><p> </p><p>Vaguely. Leo said nothing. Whatever punishment Tim had in mind, there was no reason to delay it or drag it out.</p><p> </p><p>A slight crease forms between Tim’s brows. “I know you’ve got to be feeling like hell, but are you— able to talk?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence was wrong. Leo messed up again. </p><p> </p><p>Even knowing that, he couldn’t force his jaw to unlock. Silence had been right for as long as he could remember when it came to repercussions, and though his mind did its best to understand that was not the case here, his body was much less easily swayed. </p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. It was as close as he could get to communication. Hopefully, him making an effort with a shaky workaround would earn leniency.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, that’s— that’s alright. Nonverbal for now.” Tim's hands lifted.<em> 'How about sign?' </em></p><p> </p><p>Another wave of frustration at himself hit. Shaking his head was all well and good, but as soon as he tried a larger motion, his muscles locked up. Even the shrug he attempted shifted him by no more than a centimeter.</p><p> </p><p>Tim took it in stride. “That's okay. I’ll take it easy on questions then — yes or no only. You think that’ll be possible for you right now?”</p><p> </p><p>Thoughts spinning, Leo could do no more than nod. This matched none of the frameworks in his head. What the hell was he supposed to do here? What was Tim looking for? What was the right answer?</p><p> </p><p>“So, back to what I was saying. D’you remember going between Mum and Dad’s houses every week?”</p><p> </p><p>Nod.</p><p> </p><p>“And Mum was always on the strict side, Dad wasn’t home much when we were there, all that.”</p><p> </p><p>Nod.</p><p> </p><p>“When Dad was home, I always acted out a lot. I never thought before pulling anything, I just… did it. When you’re a teenager, you assume everything you do is the right way, so it makes sense, I guess.” Tim glanced over to Leo. “You did some too, but me more than you.”</p><p> </p><p>Now that he said it, Leo thought he knew what Tim meant, maybe. When they were at their dad’s house and he was gone, things were quiet. Comfortable, as well as they could be for two teenagers left with the run of the place. When he was home, things were not.</p><p> </p><p>“I never thought about why, either. It didn’t matter to me. Wasn’t until I started going to therapy in uni that I even realized it was related to everything else.” </p><p> </p><p>Therapy, right. Leo half-remembered Tim suggesting Leo do the same, and that he’d brushed Tim off. Tim was the one who had it worse, right? Leo didn’t need that. </p><p> </p><p>“But after talking about it with my old therapist, I got it more — Mum had all those rules, right? And you knew <em> exactly </em>what happened when you broke one. Dad, he didn’t have any. Apparently it’s really common in kids who grow up somewhere strict like that, and then go somewhere things are different.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with him pulling at his bandages, but it wasn’t as if interrupting was on the table. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re used to rules and you know the consequences, so when you go somewhere without the same level of rules and where you <em> don’t </em>know the consequences, you go out of your way to be a prick until you find where the lines fall. That’s what I was doing at Dad’s: trying to find the lines.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo nodded again. It made sense, sure, and Leo was glad in some distant way that Tim had figured that out about himself, but he didn’t see how it was relevant. </p><p> </p><p>“I probably should have guessed earlier, but hindsight, right? It didn’t click that you were doing the same thing until you looked at me when I hit the doorframe in the kitchen.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh. He was? Leo knew he needed to find this place’s edges, yes, but that was a long process. It’d taken a while the first time, he knew that. He should know better than to push.</p><p> </p><p>“And you— you looked terrified, Leo.”</p><p> </p><p>Was he terrified? He didn’t feel it. Just cold.</p><p> </p><p>Tim turned where he sat so he could look at Leo directly, and despite how leaden his body felt Leo attempted the same. </p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re used to things working a certain way. You’re used to… consequences, but I want you to know that however things worked there, it’s different now. And I know that’s probably not— not great to hear, because you’re not used to it, but here you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing.” </p><p> </p><p>His brother’s face was more serious than Leo could ever remember seeing, bar when he wrapped his hand tight around Leo’s arm and pulled him from Nikola’s grasp. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not ever going to hurt you, Leo. Never.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s voice came in a rasp, but the fact that he could speak at all by now surprised even him. “It’s not the same thing, is it? When there’s a <em> reason—” </em></p><p> </p><p>The shake of Tim’s head cut him off. “There’ll never be a reason you could give me to hurt you. When I say never, I mean <em> never.” </em> Tim paused, considering. “Unless I need to shove you out of the way of something to save your damn life or whatever else. <em> Never </em>as some kind of punishment.”</p><p> </p><p>Brows furrowed, Leo could only study him, searching his face for exceptions.</p><p> </p><p>After a long moment of quiet, Tim spoke once more with heavy words. “And if you don’t believe me just yet, that’s okay. I know it’s hard to break something you’re that used to, so—”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t know why or how he could say it with such certainty, but he did. He believed Tim. </p><p> </p><p>When the tension Tim had been attempting to hide left him in a rush, the relief that replaced it was so strong Leo could almost feel it from where he sat. </p><p> </p><p>“I— Good. Okay, that’s… that’s good.” He shifted where he sat, then just as Leo expected, held up an arm. “Hug okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo went into for what was less a hug and more a fall, forehead planted against Tim’s shoulder and arms hanging loosely between them. Tim’s arms settled around Leo, cautious of all the bandages criss-crossing his back. </p><p> </p><p>Neither of them moved for a long, long time. </p><p> </p><p>And, when Leo managed to croak, “I think Mary Beth spilled some wine on your carpet. Madwoman,” Tim’s responding laughter nearly hid the fact that both of their voices were thick with tears.</p><p> </p><p>Absolute saps, the both of them. Ran in the Stoker name. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Against all odds, they found routine. </p><p> </p><p>Tim went as light as he could on the gauze while still covering everything that needed it, and wrapped it as tight as he could without hurting Leo. Less for him to pull at, that way. </p><p> </p><p>He still did pull at them, of course. A couple breakdowns and a necessary conversation didn’t stop them from being so damn <em> itchy. </em></p><p> </p><p>(He later found that it was nothing compared to his back. The first time Tim caught him scratching between his shoulder blades by rubbing against the nearest doorframe, he teased Leo mercilessly for looking like a bear against a tree before making sure none of the bandages were too disturbed.)</p><p> </p><p>At the Institute, he continued to help Martin sort through the oldest files. Normally something so tedious and repetitive would drive Leo up the walls — if anything, his time with the circus made his ADHD <em> worse </em>— but Martin kept up conversation interesting enough that he didn’t mind. Leo wasn’t sure when it stopped feeling like a job he did to repay a debt and became something he enjoyed, but he wasn’t complaining.</p><p> </p><p>In a strange way, it was like practicing with the contortionist. Doing the same thing over and over guaranteed tedium, but the right company helped. </p><p> </p><p>He wished the comparison didn’t make him feel like shit the rest of the day. G-d, he missed her. </p><p> </p><p>Conversation with Jon remained stilted. Jon’s questions were always benign, and never compelled. Leo even got the nerve to ask what Jon made of the cracks in Leo’s skin, but among the subsequent avalanche of theories, they came to no conclusion. Leo was content to write it off as one of those <em> things. </em>Judging by Jon’s narrowed eyes and the thoughtful tug on his lower lip, he had no such plans.</p><p> </p><p>When the others showed up, Leo made himself scarce, which Martin picked up on before long. Those were the days he pulled out boxes with the oldest, most fragile pages; the ones that took all their concentration and a lot of time to preserve. From what Leo could tell, Tim was no more interested in making nice, though Leo did see him occasionally talk with Basira over one of the books Leo had noticed by the chair back at his house. </p><p> </p><p>Great way to make friends: show them boring books. Sometimes Leo wondered how Tim managed to pass as anything but a massive nerd. </p><p> </p><p>The only one of the Institute staff Leo knew that he didn’t see over the next week was Elias. It should have been a comfort, but Leo knew better than to assume his absence was a good thing. Even at his most relaxed, he couldn’t help wondering what Elias might consider worth the punishment of his words. </p><p> </p><p>He only needed a single word for maximum effect. If skin carried names like birthmarks, the last four years turned Leo’s malignant. </p><p> </p><p>It should have scared him. It should have made him nervous. Skittish. It should have guaranteed that Leo would do anything to ensure that name was never spoken again. </p><p> </p><p>It did those things without a doubt, but above all else it pissed him off. </p><p> </p><p>That, Leo was sure when he came into the living room one morning with teeth set in determination, Tim would understand. </p><p> </p><p>No point in a prelude. “I want to try going by my original name again.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim looked over with surprise, then caution. “Isn’t that a little… hasty? I mean, when Elias used it, it <em> really </em>messed you up. I don’t want you to feel like you have to or anything, or that anyone expects you to. If you want to stick with Leo—”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s not that. Like you said, if it stays that bad of a trigger then Elias can use it to hurt both of us, and, y’know… Fuck that guy.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim raised his water bottle in cheers, but still he looked uncertain. “I don’t want you to do something you’re not ready for just to spite him. You can wait as long as you need.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just… I think I want to try being—” He cleared his throat to dislodge the name that refused to leave his mouth. “Leo is— It’s good, it works, but it also feels like… I don’t know. Not me. Not that the other one feels like me either, but if I can get one of them to feel right I want it to be that.” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know why justification kept tumbling out, as if this was something Tim would ever expect him to justify, but he couldn’t stop the flow of words. “Maybe part of me wants to take it back just because they said I couldn’t have it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, there was no faster way to get you to dig in my things as a kid than tell you to keep out, so that makes sense,” Tim agreed. “What do you need from me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just… say it, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Well, no. That’s not how that’s gonna happen, because it’s definitely still going to freak you out.” Tim got up, then patted the back of the couch in an unspoken request for the man to sit. “Be right back.”</p><p> </p><p>As he waited, the man’s knee bounced away. He no longer needed as many bandages around his fingers, and some part of him missed them. Less to fidget with. </p><p> </p><p>Tim returned a few minutes later with a thick duvet over one shoulder and two large mugs. He set the mugs on the coffee table, tossed the duvet on the couch, and crossed to the curtains. </p><p> </p><p>“You want these open for some sunlight, or no?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t know,” the man said with a shrug. “Open, I guess?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim tugged the heavy fabric apart. “We’ll see how it goes.”</p><p> </p><p>The man lifted a corner of the duvet. “And this?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s heavy,” Tim explained as he sat again. “And I know some people like pressure when they feel rough; that was usually what Jon went for first when he got in a state.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon?” Every time the man thought he knew what the hell was happening between them, some side comment threw it all into question. He was the only one from the Institute that Tim trusted was who he said he was; who hadn’t been <em> replaced, </em>whatever that meant. Tim carried him on his back out of the House of Wax. They barely spoke at work. When they did, it was in rows frequent enough Martin considered them a fixture of the office. Tim still knew what Jon preferred when he felt low.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, the man was a bit out of touch with how relationships worked in everyday life. He didn’t think reacclimation would make those two any less confusing.</p><p> </p><p>The dark look Tim sent those thick, opaque curtains cleared up precisely none of it. “Doesn’t matter right now. You can use it or not, whichever works.”</p><p> </p><p>As the man leaned forward to take one of the mugs, he folded it across his legs. It was only moments before his still-bouncing knee settled. </p><p> </p><p>Huh. Neat.</p><p> </p><p>He took a long sip, unsurprised to find the mug was full of hot chocolate, but blinked when another flavor hit.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you put Bailey’s in this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Look, if all this doesn’t warrant that, I don’t know what does.” Tim turned so he was facing the man. “Anything else you can think of that might help?”</p><p> </p><p>The man considered that as he set his mug back down. </p><p> </p><p>“Touch is good, I think.” Not with cold hands, but at this point he knew Tim didn’t have to be told that. </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t hesitate in taking his hand. “Good?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm.” He took a deep breath. No point in putting it off. “Go for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Since you were okay with this one for a bit, how’s, uh… How’s Dandelion?”</p><p> </p><p>The man flinched, but translated it into elbowing his brother. “Of course <em> that’s </em>your priority.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim smirked. “Gotta start with what matters.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah." However hard the man rolled his eyes, it wasn't hard enough. “Y’know, I actually thought of myself as— as <em> Stoker </em>the other day, and didn’t even realize ‘til later.”</p><p> </p><p>The name came strangled, but Tim didn’t call attention to that. “How about we just get your name changed to Dandelion Stoker, then?”</p><p> </p><p>Another, smaller flinch, and he tightened his grip on Tim’s hand. “You wish.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only so at coffee shops they’d call <em> Dandelion </em>and expect a kid, then see this guy in his thirties get the drink.”</p><p> </p><p>No flinch. “G-d, that’s weird. Skipped right from twenty-six to thirty. I think I’m overdue a few crises about how old I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you only get to impulse buy a sports car when you hit forty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and when I do I’m not going to sign for it under the name <em> Dandelion.”  </em>An unspoken sign that he wanted to keep going, and not one Tim missed.</p><p> </p><p>“What, would Dan be better?”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s chest went tight, but after a few deep breaths he replied, “Considering Dad’s the only one who called me that, no. Did you ever figure out why he did?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think he heard me say I wanted to use Tim instead of Timmy, and just assumed that meant you wanted to use Dan,” Tim answered, still carefully watching the man’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like him.” He let out a short laugh. It shook in his lungs, but a laugh was a laugh. He’d take it. “Better than when Mum used the full thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, no doubt there.” Tim put on a passable imitation of their mother. <em>“Daniel Bisaam, if you—”</em></p><p> </p><p>The full name made the man’s breath halt in his chest, and his shoulders curled in.</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s hand tightened on his. “Shit, sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>The man shook his head. “It’s— It’s alright, just give me a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>“No rush.”</p><p> </p><p>They sat in quiet, and after another drink the man gestured for Tim to continue. </p><p> </p><p>“So, we’re gonna pass on using Daniel day-to-day, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m still busy with my thirties’ crisis; I’m not middle-aged yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t say anything for a long moment. “You sure you want to get to the last one today? I’m a little short on nicknames here, but we can hold off.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have spiked hot chocolate, I’m ready for anything.” He was tense, of course he was. Still, the determination he came in with had yet to go anywhere. Maybe this wasn’t the exact way Tim’s old therapist would have handled exposure therapy, but he was pretty sure all this was above a uni therapist’s pay grade anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“Told you this warranted it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, fine, you’re always right, whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>“Damn right I am, Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>When the rush of blood and music in his head quieted, the man found himself with one hand clutched against his ear, and the other holding Tim’s in a vice grip. Tim kept talking lowly to him, describing the room they were in, that he was on Tim’s couch, that Tim was here, that he was safe. </p><p> </p><p>The repetition slowed as the man lowered his raised hand. </p><p> </p><p>“How’re you doing?” Tim asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m not dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Great, but we’re gonna aim a little higher than that.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ugh.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim knocked into the man’s shoulder, light enough it was more tap than knock. “I know, the bar’s sky high around here. Got anything else for me besides <em> not dead?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Not dead, still breathing, still have all my limbs. I think I’m the pinnacle of health.” He took a few more long, slow breaths. “Can you say it again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, but that’s it, okay? We can tackle it again later.”</p><p> </p><p>The man sighed, though he knew that was probably wise. “Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Once again, always right. This is how it works when you’re the older sibling, Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>Though any retreat of the feeling that he left his body was technically an improvement, that by no means meant he enjoyed every second of short breath and tension winding each muscle in his body tight. Again, Tim talked to him the whole time, and though the man knew he had to be squeezing his hand tight enough to hurt, Tim showed no sign of discomfort. Not that the man was in much place to read body language, but the point stood.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he felt settled enough to take his mug up again, his drink was cold. Dammit. </p><p> </p><p>When he grimaced, Tim got the issue well enough. “You want me to reheat that real quick?”</p><p> </p><p>“In a minute.” It’d be nice, but the point of contact was better.</p><p> </p><p>Slow, deep breaths carried him for a while, until finally he knew he could separate their hands without crumbling. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. I’m good now.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t argue <em> good, </em>though by his raised brow the man knew he didn’t quite agree. Still, he took both their mugs without fuss and ducked into the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t long before he returned, hot chocolate once again hot. The man voiced a question that'd popped in his head in the interim.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you think signing it would be fine? My name, I mean."</p><p> </p><p>Tim sat with a thoughtful look as he set the mugs on the coffee table. "You'd know better than me, but I doubt they bothered with nonverbal names during all, uh... that."</p><p> </p><p>"That's what I was thinking." He straightened up again. "Can you try it?"</p><p> </p><p>After a quick, searching look, Tim did as asked. His hands moved fluidly in the namesign he'd settled on when the two of them were fourteen and eleven, huddled around the kitchen table to learn a language their parents had no interest in sharing. Tim hadn't even been the one to suggest it, but he didn't argue against the force of his brother's enthusiasm and a stack of worn library books.</p><p> </p><p>No panic. No clenched muscles and scattered head. Just the name his brother gave him, and nothing but.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't need to say it worked, not when the true smile on his face was answer enough. Tim returned it in full force.</p><p> </p><p>“We should probably stick with your namesign or Leo day-to-day for a bit, yeah? And if you ever do switch back to the original, Leo can stay on the table for days you still feel rough.”</p><p> </p><p>He took a drink and relished the warmth it spread through his chest. “Sounds good." Despite his impatience, taking it slow was probably for the best. He couldn’t shotgun trauma with one session of exposure, even one as hefty as this. Still, he would get there. </p><p> </p><p>Here, there was no ringmaster. There was only Danny Stoker, master of none.</p><p> </p><p>Someday, somehow, that would be enough.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: danny's bad headspace (tense, expecting abuse, etc), non-graphic injury care, discussion of scars, implications of tim dealing with some Super intrusive thoughts, brief discussion of child neglect, brief exposure therapy (as controlled as they can make it), mention of ableism (specifically the stoker parents not bothering to learn BSL)</p><p>"ren what does tim's back tattoo look like" [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648365316913643520/titanfalling-tim-stoker-voice-i-dont-care">i'm so glad you asked</a>] </p><p>the name danny notices on the books tim is reading is steven hassan, creator of what's called the strategic interactive approach as an alternative to cult deprogramming. because the SIA is much safer, more considerate of both the person who needs it and that person's family/loved ones, and doesn't use similar tactics to cults themselves, it's become favored by most over deprogramming. you can read more about that [<a href="https://freedomofmind.com/cult-deprogramming-vs-strategic-interactive-approach/">here</a>] (incidentally, the page tim himself was reading when danny woke up on the couch)!</p><p>in the wings: back to the roots</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. FOUR OF WANDS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On love, history, and the space between houses and homes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>advance warning</b> (specifics in the end note as always): i’m working with the same backstory for the stokers that i did my other tma fic series. for those who haven’t read, their parents are very homophobic, meaning after tim was accidentally outed he spent a lot of time sleeping at friends’ houses as a teenager before getting his own place. in this chapter tim gives danny the option to visit their mother since he had a better relationship with their parents, which means a lot of this comes up. check the end note for specifics, but this is something i didn’t want to blindside anyone with, especially considering a draw to tma for some is the lack of homophobia/transphobia. as a bi+nb person it’s something i have grounds to discuss, but <b>if you’d like to skip that, when you get to “Mum? No, I— Mhm. Right.”, ctrl+f “It didn't take long for Leo to realize” for after they’ve left!</b></p><p>anyway. ANYWAY. we have some more art: [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368497429266433/tinywingull-i-had-yet-to-draw-something-for">a lovely danny portrait looking so very spooky!!</a>]</p><p>suggested listening: the truth by foster the people</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Leo slept heavy these days. Waking up was a process that took the better part of an hour, and even once he was upright, he spoke in little more than grumbles until he had some food in him. </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s shout of <em> “Jesus—” </em>from the bathroom shoved him through every stage of the usual process with all the subtlety of a brick to the face.</p><p> </p><p>In what was more stumble than run, Leo crashed through the half-open door to see Tim staring at the mirror, sink running and toothbrush still in hand. Nothing looked amiss.</p><p> </p><p>“Wha?” For the first of the day, Leo’s question sounded impressively close to an actual word. </p><p> </p><p>With an absent motion, Tim brushed away the toothpaste still at one corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then went to sign. No hearing aids this early. <em> 'Nothing, just, uh… losing my mind, I guess. Does the mirror look bigger to you? Please tell me the mirror looks bigger to you.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Though Leo couldn’t say he’d ever paid much attention to it, there was no missing how what was once the width of the sink alone now spanned the breadth of the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“...Oh. Huh.”</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Oh, thank g-d.' </em> Still wide-eyed, Tim shook his head as he fumbled to turn off the sink. <em> 'I just— just leaned over to spit out my toothpaste, and then when I stood up again… Super mirror. Okay. Uh—' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Sorry.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Nothing to apologize for,' </em> Tim replied automatically. Leo grimaced.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'No, I think, uh… Think this one’s my fault.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim met his eyes in their brand-new super mirror. <em> 'What.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Yeah, I— Just, close your eyes real quick, maybe?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>After a moment of gaping at him like he was signing a different language, Tim did as asked. </p><p> </p><p>Leo spoke no magic words. He made no mystical gestures. He didn’t think a command. If asked, he wouldn’t even be able to pin the exact moment it changed. It just <em> was.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Okay, um. There.” Right. No hearing aids. He reached out to tap Tim on the shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Tim opened his eyes once more, and for a long beat remained staring without a word.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Neat trick.' </em> Faint, but remarkably casual.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Yeah, I— I didn’t know it was a </em>thing.'</p><p> </p><p>Tim turned the full force of his stare to Leo. '<em> How do you not—' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'With how weird everything was backstage, you really think I would have noticed a mirror change sizes?' </em> Leo countered before he could finish.</p><p> </p><p><em> '...Point, I guess.' </em> Tim ran a hand through his hair, long and loose around his shoulders, as he traded flat surprise for something more analytical. <em> 'I thought mirrors were a Spiral thing.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'A what?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Smirke’s </em> <em> taxonomy? Categorizing the fourteen dread powers and all,' </em> Tim said. <em> 'When I was originally researching him and came across that, I just thought it was something a little, uh, less inspired than his architecture. Turns out, all that’s my job now. Lucky me.' </em></p><p> </p><p>It was Leo’s turn to stare. <em> 'I haven’t understood a thing you’ve said for the last thirty seconds.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'The Spiral’s just another one of the powers, like the Eye or the Stranger,' </em> Tim elaborated. <em> 'Like, uh, the corridors we used when we got you and Jon. Not sure how much you remember since you were pretty out of it, but that’s part of the Spiral.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Right.' </em> Tim was correct; Leo remembered almost nothing from that bar a woman with red glasses. He did remember Nikola referring to certain things as <em> twisted </em> — considering the similar nomenclature, it was safe to assume this is what she meant. <em> 'I don’t think it’s that separated, though. As far as what forces can affect what things go, anyway.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim looked thoughtful. <em> 'What do you mean?' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Like, if you gave two people a bolt of fabric, they might use it in different ways even though they’ve got the same thing.' </em> Leo leaned against the counter as he explained. <em> 'You said fourteen? I’m guessing that if we kept the analogy, some would be really good at making something and others wouldn’t be able to do anything at all, but it’d be different for everybody.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'So with mirrors,' </em> Tim said in a return to the original point. <em> 'It might send people into some infinite hell maze covered with the things, and you just make them bigger. Think I like your take more.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo shrugged with the beginnings of a smile. <em> 'I haven’t tried it, though. Maybe I have my own infinite hell mazes.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'I’m gonna vote against that, for what it’s worth,' </em> Tim winced.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Hey, it could be fun to see what changes. Maybe it’ll be the same inescapable mirror maze, but like, all blasting circus music or—' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Leo.” Spoken.</p><p> </p><p>He looked over to see Tim’s wince had graduated to genuine unease, and his hands dropped from their half-finished gestures. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Sorry.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'No worries. Bound to happen when you put two traumatized idiots in a house together.' </em> Tim nudged him. <em> 'Thanks for the mirror magic, but scoot. I still need to shower.' </em></p><p> </p><p>And, when Tim came into the kitchen a half hour later without a trace of tension, Leo was even able to believe it was, in fact, alright.</p><p> </p><p>As Tim cracked an egg into a pan, he said over his shoulder, “I was thinking—”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice change of pace.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim grabbed another egg from the carton and mimed throwing it at a grinning Leo. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. See if I make you pancakes again.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Now that’s just cruel.”</p><p> </p><p>“Damn right, so watch it.” He turned back to the stove. When he spoke again a minute later, it was with mild, well-hidden discomfort. “I’ve been, uh, reading a lot about all this. About how to help people who’ve been in similar situations to you, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Similar?” Leo asked with a raised brow. “You mean, all the other people out there who got half-skinned by a circus?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not the exact same, smartass,” Tim countered as he set a plate that was more cheese than scrambled eggs in front of Leo — so, the perfect ratio. “But plenty of people get pulled into groups they can’t get out of.”</p><p> </p><p>That made it click. “What, cults? Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, if you know what else to call <em>a terrible group with a charismatic leader who everyone treats like their word is gospel, </em> <em> makes you leave every part of your old life, and does everything they can to make sure you can’t leave them, </em>you let me know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, fine. It’s weird to think about, is all. Danny Stoker, cult escapee.” He shook his head a little as he sat back on his stool. “Oh, my g-d, am I a statistic?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim made no production of Leo using his full, original name, but Leo could feel eyes studying him in case they needed to pause the conversation. True, saying it himself made him nauseous, but the only way he could see to abate that was time and practice. It was a process. </p><p> </p><p>Once Tim decided they were safe to continue, he replied, “If anyone’s tracking the percentage of British-Malaysian men who get pulled into supernatural circus cults, it’s news to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Always knew I was meant for great things.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s… one way to put it.” Tim sat with his own tragically cheese-less eggs — poor, lactose-intolerant bastard. “There’s a couple different ways to handle helping people with all this. One’s called deprogramming, but with that you just— just <em> kidnap </em>the person and beat them over the head with information until they say they get it. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they just don’t fancy being a prisoner any longer.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo wondered if Jon told Tim about the first conversation they had at the Institute. He didn’t feel like a prisoner <em> here, </em> not in the slightest. Tim’s house was good. Safe.</p><p> </p><p>The Institute, on the other hand… He didn’t know. He knew he hated the place. The fact that most others in the archives shared the sentiment didn’t change much.</p><p> </p><p>Some of his unease must have shown, and Tim nodded. “There’s a reason people don’t go for that these days. Current stuff is more long-term, and focuses on everyone, not just the person. Family.”</p><p> </p><p>As Leo sipped a mug of what was as much creamer as coffee, he tried to read Tim’s face and came up empty. A little tense, no doubt. A little unsure. A lot resolute.</p><p> </p><p>“I actually talked about it some with Basira, and she agreed that it should be up to you, so. I know I haven’t painted some glowing picture of our parents, but you always got on better with them than me.” He went quiet another moment as he gathered his thoughts, then turned in his stool to face Leo. “I haven’t told them you’re back. We don’t talk much these days, and I knew that Mum would shake down every person she could find to get my address and come see you — whether you were ready or not.”</p><p> </p><p>She… didn’t even know where Tim lived? Not talking much seemed like an understatement.</p><p> </p><p>“Part of it’s also that they’ll both probably end up calling you by your original name, even if they try to use Leo, and I didn’t want to push that too soon, but it’s your call. I don’t know if Dad’s off on some trip or anything, but Mum might. If you want to go see her sometime, we can do that.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo propped his head on one hand, thoughtful. His memory from before was a patchwork on the best of days, but the taste of warm teh tarik was hard to forget — in part for how different it was from the thin, bitter tea at the Institute. He remembered even less of his early weeks with the troupe, before he took his role, but he knew he spent much of it wishing for her.</p><p> </p><p>When Leo didn’t say anything, Tim stood to collect their dishes. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. Just know you’ve got the option if you want, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Will you be okay? If we go see her, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will I—” Tim turned back from the sink to look at him. “It’s not about me, Leo.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo shrugged. “I mean, it kind of is.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Tim asserted. “I think the space was necessary, just for a while, but I’ll be fine if you want to go.” </p><p> </p><p>As Tim returned to the dishes, Leo’s fingers drummed against his jaw. What was the right answer here? He knew Tim was being honest when he said he would be happy to go with whatever Leo chose, but that didn’t stop there being a correct choice. Maybe Tim knew what that correct choice was, but wanted to give Leo options anyway. To ensure Leo knew what happened when he made the wrong one?</p><p> </p><p>No, Tim wouldn’t do that. If nothing else, Leo knew that much. Still, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do here. Him making choices ended badly, every time. None of the rules he’d learned so far pointed towards the way expected of him. Not like talking to Jon when requested, because it was the domain of the Eye and its Archivist and that was how things worked. Not like helping Martin with small jobs around the archives, because if Leo was there and could be useful then he should be. Those questions answered themselves before it ever came close to his judgment; the path made clear by context.</p><p> </p><p>What context did he have here? Vague allusions to strictness? A foggy recollection of a warm drink? The fact that Tim went to therapy and thought Leo should do the same? His own distant wish for her arms around him when all else was cold and sharp and frighteningly perfect? None of it gave more than hints. He knew if he asked, Tim would repeat that it was up to Leo. Just him, alone, to make a choice that felt more <em> too-much </em>with every passing second.</p><p> </p><p>He caught a lone snag when thinking over how Tim phrased the suggestion. While there was no guarantee it would solve anything, an explanation might be just what Leo needed to see the right answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Why Basira?”</p><p> </p><p>Dishes finished, Tim turned off the sink and dried his hands. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You said you talked about it some with Basira. Why her? I didn’t think you knew her very well.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t, not really.” Tim leaned against the counter with a thoughtful look. “But from the people at the Institute, she and Daisy are the ones who’d be most likely to know about all this, even if it’s not direct experience or anything, and you couldn’t pay me money to talk to Daisy about it.” </p><p> </p><p>Being held at gunpoint did potential friendships no favors, but Leo knew that to Tim it was less that she had considered shooting, and far more that she did so with Leo as her intended target.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides, she’s pretty objective, which helps,” Tim continued. “I didn’t want to put anything on you too fast. All of this takes a lot of time, so you can go as slow as you need.”</p><p> </p><p>So going meant progress, then. Going meant <em> better.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Finally. Would it have been so hard for Tim to start with that?</p><p> </p><p>“I guess we’d better start using D— using Danny around the house, then.” Leo got to his feet. “It wouldn’t be a great reunion if I just end up having a meltdown on her porch as soon as she says <em> hi.” </em> It wasn't as if she'd use his namesign. To her, it was no more his <em> real </em>name than Leo.</p><p> </p><p>Tim blinked at him. “So— So you <em> do </em>want to?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Why the surprise? Tim was the one who just gave him the hint that it was the correct choice. Was he just thrown off that Leo picked up on it? </p><p> </p><p>Christ, he wished everyone would just say what they meant. All this guesswork was exhausting. </p><p> </p><p>“Got it. Do you want me to wait a few days so you can have some more time to get comfortable using that before we go?” Tim asked as he pushed off the counter. “Once I call, she’ll probably want us there right away, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, sure. Might as well.” It wasn’t frequent, but every so often Tim would slip a <em> Danny </em> in with the <em> Leos. </em>He never doubled up on the former. Their mother almost certainly would. He wasn’t even sure if asking her to call him Leo while there would be worth the headache, especially not with the mountains of explanation him using a different name would require. </p><p> </p><p>Speaking of. “What, um… What the hell are we going to tell her about all this?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim took a breath in as if he was about to rattle off some perfect cover story, then paused and rubbed his temples. “We’ve got a few days. While you get more comfortable with <em>Danny,</em> I’ll… come up with something. Hopefully.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wow, <em> hopefully? </em>All my worries have vanished. I’d be lost without you, brother mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim leveled him with a warning look. “It’s like you <em> want </em>me to stop making pancakes.” </p><p> </p><p>“This may shock you, but I <em> do </em>know how to read recipes."</p><p> </p><p>“Last time you tried to make them, you burnt and undercooked the same one.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo made a shove at Tim’s shoulder as Tim passed him to go to his bedroom. “Hey, I was fourteen!” </p><p> </p><p>“And yet you never made them again,” Tim called back. “Damn right you’d be lost without me.” </p><p> </p><p>Any other day, that might come out as poignant and syrup-sweet. Today, Leo only considered how long it would take to master the technique for the express purpose of making a stack to throw one-by-one at his brother. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Mum? No, I— Mhm. Right.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim sent Leo a long-suffering look — well earned, considering his fight against her rambling pushed five minutes by now.</p><p> </p><p>“Mum, I— Mum. Are you home? There’s, um… There’s someone you should meet.” </p><p> </p><p>Another wave of excited chatters that Leo couldn’t make out.</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s not a girlfriend.”</p><p> </p><p>Quiet, then a few more words. Tim rolled his eyes. “It’s not <em> any </em>date. Just— Are you home? … Right. Can we swing by in about… twenty, thirty minutes? … Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. … Mhm. See you then.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Tim hung up and sighed. “If you’re curious about Dad’s newest bullshit that Mum doesn’t approve of, I’ve got all the information you could want and more.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, I’ll pass,” Leo said with a grimace. “You didn’t mention me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought that probably wouldn’t be great to drop over the phone,” Tim explained as he stood from the couch. “Anything you need before we go?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo shook his head. “I’m ready when you are.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Sure. C’mon.”</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t talk on the drive over, though Tim blasted music loud enough Leo was sure the cars around them could hear every word. He wasn’t complaining. There was nothing that compared to the sensation of a song so loud it thrummed in the chest like a heartbeat. That was one of the things he loved most about home; the music here couldn’t be more different, but all melodies felt the same threaded through his ribs. </p><p> </p><p>Unlike when they first got to Tim’s house, Leo recognized the place Tim pulled up to in an instant. Both their parents moved just after their divorce when Leo was… eight, maybe? Nine? Something like that. Their father moved a few more times for what always felt like little rhyme or reason, but even now their mother’s home was the same.</p><p> </p><p>Tim killed the engine and sat back in his chair. After a brief pause, he lifted his hands.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'You ready?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo nodded. <em> 'Are you?' </em></p><p> </p><p>With something close to a smile, Tim elbowed him. <em> 'Of course I am.' </em> Another pause. <em> 'Let’s go.' </em></p><p> </p><p>At the door, Tim knocked with Leo just behind, and in moments it opened.</p><p> </p><p>Though both he and Tim had their mother’s coloration — black hair, black eyes, warm brown skin — their height was their father’s, and the woman before them was just as slight as Leo remembered. Her long, straight hair, so like Tim’s, had gone a steel grey, and the lines around her eyes were much deeper. Despite the changes, the way she tilted her head and pursed her lips in confusion was the same as ever.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim? It’s been so… so long, who did—”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could continue, Tim shifted to the side to allow Leo forward. </p><p> </p><p>“...Hi, Mum.”</p><p> </p><p>She stared in absolute silence, mouth still open from her aborted question. One trembling hand rose, paused in midair, then reached out to brush against his face. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny?” she murmured around the unmistakable thickness of sudden tears. </p><p> </p><p>The name made his chest tighten, but he was ready for it. Without a word he nodded and leaned into her hand. </p><p> </p><p>She pulled him close in an instant, and despite her small stature she held him in a vice grip. His arms circled her waist as he buried his face against her shoulder, absorbing every bit of the comfort he’d longed for during those days of nothing but vivid colorpain. One of their mother’s arms shifted, reaching out for Tim as if to brush against his face in the same way, though Leo didn’t lift his head to look. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know how long they stood there before their mother pulled away. She spent another long moment studying his face with no mind to the tears on her own, then reached over to take him by the hand and Tim by the wrist. </p><p> </p><p>“Come in, come in! It’s too hot for you to be out here in long sleeves,” she said as she tugged them both along and shut the door behind them. </p><p> </p><p>Her living room looked much the same as Leo remembered, though with a few more pictures of him scattered about. Even the worn leather couch she hurried him towards remained despite how often she used to mention someday getting a new one — some things never changed. With knuckles pressed to her mouth, she watched him settle in until an abrupt thought pulled her upright. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh! I asked your brother if whoever he was bringing might like having some teh tarik ready — I don’t have much reason to make it for anyone but myself these days,” she called, already bustling off towards the kitchen. In moments she returned with mugs balanced on a small dish. “It’s sweeter than you like, so if you want a fresh cup—”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s got a bit of a sweet tooth these days,” Tim told her as he claimed a nearby armchair. “So it should be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo accepted the mug with a smile and a soft, “Thanks, Mum.” With how warm it was outside, a hot drink would be odd to most, but their mother always kept the house rather cold. </p><p> </p><p>The added time from her trip to the kitchen and back wasn’t enough to dry her tears as she came to rest on the couch next to him. She reached over to take his hands in her own, but at the sight of their woven fingers, her eyes widened. </p><p> </p><p>His hands were healed enough to no longer need much in the way of bandages. Even still, long, thin stripes criss-crossed the skin of his palms and fingers — some mere scars, some purple-red and sensitive. As she studied his hands, his too-short sleeves rode up enough to reveal a bit of the lines down his arms, and her breath caught in her throat. </p><p> </p><p>Tim sat forward hurriedly, but before could say anything beyond, “Mum, he doesn’t like—” she pushed up Leo’s sleeves to see his scars in full. Even as her fingers traced them, he didn’t look down — though the sight of them didn’t always upset him, he figured it was best to be cautious with how delicate this whole meeting was.</p><p> </p><p>Moments later, she pulled him into another hug. “What happened to you, <em> sayang? </em> Where did my boy go?”</p><p> </p><p>As they had agreed, Tim stepped in to answer. “...He was kidnapped, Mum. On one of his urban exploration trips. A few weeks ago, the group he was with came to London, and he figured out a way to sneak off and find me. About a week later, we managed to get him out.” </p><p> </p><p>Their mother tore her head from its place on Leo’s shoulder. “You knew he was alive for <em> weeks </em>and you didn’t tell me?!”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could get any more incensed, Leo leaned away to meet her eyes. “We didn’t know if it was safe, Mum.”</p><p> </p><p>Still to Tim, she continued. “I don’t care if it was safe or not, I deserve to know that my son isn’t dead!”</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t just his decision,” Leo said. “We’re working with— with police and all, and they told us to wait.” More of a lie than the vague half-truths they’d given so far, but Basira was at least ex-police, and she <em> did </em>tell them to wait until Leo felt ready. Close enough. </p><p> </p><p>After a sharp sigh, she reached over to run a hand through Leo's hair. “I knew you were alive. I <em> knew </em>it; even from the start, I knew. Your bedroom is still here, I didn’t change anything. It won’t take long to move you in. We can start today—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m living with Tim, Mum.” Yes, Leo was glad to see her and gratified that she so quickly offered her home, but something in him balked at the mere idea of leaving for yet another square one.</p><p> </p><p>“...Yes, well. If you ever want it, you always have a home here.” </p><p> </p><p>Their mother looked over to Tim again. Her eyes lingered on his hair (in a braid today, awfully simple), then flicked down to his hands. His nails were olive green — Leo picked the color, and was still quite happy with the choice. Maybe she was thinking how well it complimented his skin tone. </p><p> </p><p>The expression she wore was odd. Distaste, maybe? Should he have picked a different color?</p><p> </p><p>Or, no. No, he remembered now — their father hated the nail polish, and that was one of the very few things their parents agreed on. </p><p> </p><p>There was no way Tim missed her studying him. He said nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Their mother sat forward as if about to speak, but when Leo set down his almost-empty mug, she leapt right to her feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, let me get you a fresh cup — plenty sweet!” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to—” Before Leo could tell her he was alright, she rushed off.</p><p> </p><p>Tim paused in twisting his ring with absent fingers to sign. <em> 'You doing okay, still?' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Just say the word if you need to step out.' </em> It wasn’t some roundabout request to leave, Leo didn’t think, only a reminder that he had the option. </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t ask to leave, no, but that option was available for him just as much as it was Leo. May as well give the same reminder. <em> 'Are </em> you <em> okay?' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim sent him another one of those almost-smiles. <em> 'You’re fine, I’m fine.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Footsteps came from behind. No more signing <b>— </b>their mother hated when they did around her for the same reason their father didn't like them talking in Malay, far too worried that the conversation might be about them to allow it. The rather obvious solution there meant nothing to either of them.</p><p> </p><p>Their mother handed Leo his fresh mug across the back of the couch, though rather than sit again herself, she remained standing behind where Leo sat and ran gentle fingers through his hair. “You know, Tim, I was thinking…” Her voice remained casual, but edged with an off-putting sort of hope. “Since the one who asked you to grow out your hair with… <em> them, </em>since they passed away, do you think you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.” Though Leo could tell Tim was trying hard to keep his tone level, there was no missing the heat in his eyes. “Don’t do that. Not today.” </p><p> </p><p>Wait. Passed away? </p><p> </p><p>Leo’s eyes fixed on Tim in shock. “Sasha died? Sasha James?” </p><p> </p><p>“...Yeah.” The heat vanished. All that remained was tired smoke from a flame just snuffed. “I’ll tell you later.” </p><p> </p><p>Sasha had always been Tim’s friend more than Leo’s since they were in the same grade in secondary school, but he knew her well enough. She got automatic approval for asking Leo to teach her some BSL so she could sign with Tim. When she’d decided to grow out her hair even though she wasn’t out as a girl to their school, she’d asked Tim to do the same, hoping that if a fairly popular guy had long hair they wouldn’t care about hers despite thinking she was a guy. They’d kept up with it even after she came out. Leo could barely remember what Tim looked like with short hair after so many years. </p><p> </p><p>“I just thought—”</p><p> </p><p>“That because she died, I’d cut it all off? No, Mum. I’m not doing that.” </p><p> </p><p>It was a tired argument between them, the emotion so worn from its words it hardly counted as one at all, and their mother chose to not exhaust the same points further. Instead, she leaned forward a degree to smile down at Leo. </p><p> </p><p>“I always knew you were out there, Danny. I knew you were alive this whole time, I <em> knew </em>it.” Towards Tim but without looking away, she continued, “Didn’t I say from the start I knew it? I kept telling you all he was alright, didn’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you did.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo glanced over to Tim in budding concern. His voice was flat, and though Leo couldn’t read his face, his rapidly bouncing knee said plenty. </p><p> </p><p>To their mother, he said, “I mean, it’s pretty understandable everyone thought I was gone, since I just… vanished, y’know? It’s not his—”</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t mean we had to hold a funeral right away!” Their mother’s brows raised as she spoke, and he could tell that the relief he was okay combined with the satisfaction of being proven right had opened floodgates. “I swear, everyone just <em> decided </em> you were dead! I tried to argue, <em> sayang, </em> I told Tim and your <em> father </em>they were wrong, but no one listened to me. I always, always knew you’d come home.” </p><p> </p><p>Yes, it was nice to know that she never doubted that he was still alive and out there to be found, but her placing herself in opposition to Tim — and their father, though that was neither here nor there — scraped like sandpaper. </p><p> </p><p>“I— I’m glad, Mum, but I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Why were you so certain?” she interrogated over Leo. “You were the one most set on it, you just—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s face was tight. “Do we really have to talk about this right now? I—”</p><p> </p><p>“You just pushed about it, but whenever I asked why you didn’t say anything! I told you he was alive, I said it—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Mum, I <em> know, </em> but—”</p><p> </p><p>“—over and over, but you just gave up on him! You didn’t even <em>try</em> when we put out searches and—”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I was <em> there!” </em>Tim shouted as he flew to his feet. “I was there when he was taken, Mum. I saw it happen.” His hands curled in tight fists, but rather than in aggression, Leo knew it was to hide how they shook. “And what I saw, I… I didn’t think anyone could survive.”</p><p> </p><p>Their mother’s fingers went still in Leo’s hair. “...Well. It looks like you were wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>“Looks like I was.” Every word sounded dragged out of him.</p><p> </p><p>Leo wanted to speak, to come to Tim’s defense, but his own voice abandoned him. His lungs felt full of lead. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered that night. Nothing was anything and his name was a long-forgotten dream. Stage lights blinded him with the certainty that he was going to die — if he wasn’t dead already. He stood and waited and knew his death crept closer with every passing breath, though with how his body felt like nothing but papier-mâché, could he even claim to breathe? His vision couldn’t be trusted and music ran in his veins and he was going to die, he was already dead, he was more scared than he’d ever been in his life — did he have a life? Did he have an outside-this outside-here outside-now? No, certainly not. No, he was paper and skin and terror and that was all of his before. That was all to come.</p><p> </p><p>And then Tim had called his name. A single shout, and he knew who he was.</p><p> </p><p>He knew who he was, and he knew he wanted to live. </p><p> </p><p>Here, now, Tim spoke his name again, though this was no call of an attempted savior — only defeat.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny, I’ll be in the car. You stay as long as you want, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Before Leo could agree or protest, Tim was gone. The door’s quiet click shut behind him deafened more than any slam.</p><p> </p><p>Their mother circled the couch again to sit with a deep sigh. “I’d hoped that boy wouldn’t be quite so angry anymore. I know he was always like that, but I thought he might’ve grown up a little by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo attempted to make this fit with the Tim he knew — the one who tried so hard to keep his frustration in check even when Leo had been going out of his way to piss him off; the one whose arguments with others at the Institute came in Leo’s defense; the one who got a flat all his own while still a teenager; who put himself through uni; who recognized he needed therapy and found a way to secure it; who, despite it all, still tried to always be there for Leo.</p><p> </p><p>Whoever their mother remembered, Leo was certain it wasn’t Tim. Not really.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, I know you’re living with him right now,” their mother said as she took his hands once more, thumbs brushing along the backs. “But if you want to stay with me instead, all you have to say is, <em>ibu</em><em><em>,</em> I want to come home.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He tried to feel the same comfort he did in her first embrace. He wanted it back, but the sound of that quiet click dug between his thoughts like a stray needle.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Mum, but I’m gonna stay with Tim.” He didn't want to think his mother would try with any less persistence than Tim to keep watch for his triggers and help him through when everything became too much. He also didn’t want to know if he was wrong.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, being here felt… different. Tim was happy to have Leo, and if Leo could be Danny again someday he’d be just as happy with that.</p><p> </p><p>Their mother was happy to see Danny back on her couch and run her fingers through Danny’s hair, and even happier to carefully suggest that Danny deserved better than to live with his brother. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry everyone else gave up on you, <em> sayang.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Tim didn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Pity collected in her voice like syrup, thick and cloying. “Dear, he… he was the first one who said you died.” Her fingers traced along the lines on his palms once again, and her eyes followed the scars hidden by his sleeves. “I know it must hurt to hear that, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t have been able to find me even if you knew I was alive.” He couldn’t blame Tim for thinking he died, not when he himself thought he might be dead on that stage even as his heart pounded so hard he felt it from the tips of his fingers down to his very core.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t know that for sure. We might have if we looked more, but he said you were gone over and over, and when I asked what made him so sure he wouldn’t tell me anything.” She shook her head as her eyes went sharp as flint. “I can’t believe he was <em> there </em>and never told me. Never, not once said that he watched those people take you. Let them—”</p><p> </p><p>Leo pulled out of her grip. “He didn’t <em> let </em>them do anything. There was nothing he could have done.”</p><p> </p><p>“He could have <em> told </em>us what happened!” she snapped, then let out another short breath. “I’m sorry, love, I’m not mad at you.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you’re mad at <em> him </em>for— for not suddenly turning into some kind of superhero at the drop of a hat.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t the drop of a hat. It was to keep you safe, like an older brother <em> should.” </em>She attempted to reach out and stroke his hair once more, but Leo ducked away from her hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, he did. He always did. The fact that he couldn’t <em> single-handedly </em>rescue me from—” Leo cut himself off before he could say just what Tim was up against. They’d agreed to keep their mother out of the supernatural side of things for obvious reasons. “If he did anything different, he’d be dead. We both would be, probably. And it’s only because of him that I’m out of there now.”</p><p> </p><p>With mouth set in a hard line, their mother said, “Keeping someone safe, taking care of them — you don’t get to take a day off from that. Not even when things get that bad.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo stared at her for a long, silent moment.</p><p> </p><p>“I… I don’t know how you can say that when you kicked him out of the house half the time we were here, Mum.”</p><p> </p><p>She blinked at him in surprise, then her brows knit. “I don’t see what that has to do with this. You were just <em> kidnapped </em> for <em>years,</em> that’s nothing like—”</p><p> </p><p>“If he was supposed to keep me safe no matter what as my older brother,” Leo continued slowly. “Didn’t you have the same responsibility as our mother? No days off?”</p><p> </p><p>There was another pause as she chose her words with visible care. “He— With his… <em> proclivities, </em>I had to think about the bigger picture.”</p><p> </p><p>“The bigger picture?” </p><p> </p><p>She looked at Leo like he was being intentionally obtuse. “You were younger, more— more impressionable. I had to think about you too.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo wished he could find it in himself to be surprised. “...So to you, it was better for my young, impressionable self to know that my brother had to keep a bag packed at both your <em> and </em>Dad’s houses because he knew you might decide he had to leave if he— he painted his nails, or used the proper name for Sasha, or whatever else?” </p><p> </p><p>His voice climbed with each word, but he didn’t care. “It was better for me to wonder what I might end up doing that’d make you kick <em> me </em> out? You thought that knowing he didn’t feel like he had an <em> actual home, </em>after already making that hard enough with how you and Dad act, that it’d be better than letting me be around him? All of that, just because he sometimes dates guys?”</p><p> </p><p>From everything, from all his growing anger and hurt on his brother’s behalf, their mother zeroed in on an aside.</p><p> </p><p>“Your <em> father </em>sent him away?” She stood and grabbed the nearly full mugs, then turned towards the kitchen. “The nerve of that man, leaving you alone half the time and—”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Leo interrupted, not sorry in the least. “You’re— you’re <em> joking, </em>right? You have to be joking.” </p><p> </p><p>She looked back at him, eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“You did the same g-ddamn thing!” Leo burst as he pushed up off the couch to face her. “You kicked him out too, but suddenly when Dad does it, he’s the devil? How the hell does that make sense to you?!”</p><p> </p><p>“I understand you’re living with someone who doesn’t care, but in my home you will <em> not </em>use that sort of language—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Someone? </em> You mean the one you made feel so unwelcome around his <em> mother </em> he had to get his own flat when he was <em> seventeen?” </em>Leo had remembered little of the flat when Tim first mentioned it, but like much of his memory, time brought clarity. It was a tiny wreck of a place, every bit of it falling apart in its own unique way, and certainly not in a safe part of the city. “And somehow, you tell yourself that you did it for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Her knuckles went white with how hard she gripped the mugs in hand. “Yes. Yes, I did do it for you, and it’s not a decision I regret.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo wondered what would happen if he told her how many guys he himself dated, and that he’d simply learned to hide it with heavy caution. He wondered, if he told her the amount of people who died because <em> he </em>chose them from a crowded theater, which number would horrify her more.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered how she’d find a way to blame Tim for both. She wasn’t lacking in practice.</p><p> </p><p>“...Right. I’m glad we got to talk, Mum, but I need to go. I need to go, and until you <em> do </em>regret that, I’m not going to come back.”</p><p> </p><p>She jolted with wide, alarmed eyes. “What?! You— I just got you back, you can’t leave again! You—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going, Mum. I’m going to live with the person who kept me safe all growing up. It wasn’t you.” He stalked towards the door even as her voice pulled at him from behind. </p><p> </p><p>“Daniel Bisaam, I am your <em> mother </em> and you will <em> not </em>speak to me with that tone—”</p><p> </p><p>“And he’s your son!” Leo snapped as he turned on his heel to look her right in the eye. “You have two kids, Mum. Act like it.”</p><p> </p><p>He slammed the door hard enough to make up for Tim’s earlier caution. Someone should. </p><p> </p><p>When he got in the car, Tim sat up from his reclined seat like he’d been attempting to take a nap, though the speed at which he did so was a clear sign he never found success. Leo had no idea what kind of expression he wore. Judging by Tim’s immediate concern, it was far from pleasant.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” He glared at the house, hand already on his door's handle. “The hell did she say to you?” Past neon anger, Leo found it in himself to appreciate how ready Tim was to go to bat for him despite his quiet retreat earlier. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine. Let’s go,” Leo muttered as he buckled his seatbelt. “She was just talking bad about you, so I told her to shove it, and that I’ll be glad to see her again when she’s sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim sighed. “You don’t need to cut her out just because she and I don’t get on—”</p><p> </p><p>“And I don’t need your permission to be pissed off, either.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Fair enough.”</p><p> </p><p>As they pulled out of their mother’s neighborhood, Tim asked, “Did you want to try getting in touch with Dad?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, so we can get his weirdly apologetic, <em>Sorry I fucked off to Christ-knows-where again, see you never</em> notes through text rather than a bit of paper on the counter? I’m good.”</p><p> </p><p>After a beat, Tim laughed. Leo's brows furrowed. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” Tim replied with a small but true smile. “Just good to have you back.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>  </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take long for Leo to realize that these were not the same streets they took before. He looked over in confusion.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we on the scenic route, or…?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t look back. “You wanted to know about Sasha. Thought we’d probably need the extra time.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Are you sure you want to do that today?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not like there’s ever going to be a good time for it, so it doesn’t matter.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence that stretched out while Tim gathered his thoughts rang hollow with old hurts. Leo knew better than to break it. He could be patient.</p><p> </p><p>“After what happened with you, I— I quit publishing and applied at the Magnus Institute. I figured, if I was ever going to learn what took you and do something about it, that would be where to start.”</p><p> </p><p>Part of Leo was tempted to make some quip about the dramatics of the whole idea of a revenge quest, but he knew if he gave Tim an out with jokes, Tim would take it and brush all this aside to talk about <em> never.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t there more than a day when Sasha charged right up out of nowhere to say hi.” Grief shaded Tim’s smile. “Remember how she used to always watch those videos that people claimed were real ghosts, or— or aliens, or <em> whatever, </em>and find all the tricks they used to fake it? It’s not too surprising she kept with all that somewhere she could figure out the real thing along with it, but when I got there I had no idea. Still, it was… it was nice to see her. Especially with everything else.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Everything else </em> being Leo himself, he assumed. And their parents. And the job change. And the complete upheaval of every way Tim had once conceptualized himself, the world, all of it. Finding Sasha must have been a g-dsend. </p><p> </p><p>“Then Jon asked us both to work in the archives, and that’s when everything…” Tim took a deep breath, and Leo knew if he counted it’d be some measured routine of <em> inhale-hold-exhale </em>meant to keep him grounded. “It started with Prentiss.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Martin mentioned something about someone named Prentiss attacking,” Leo said. “What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim took one hand from the wheel to gesture to the pockmarks on his face. “One of the powers is called the Corruption — deals in disease, rot, decay. Parasites.”</p><p> </p><p>That, plus the scars? Leo got the picture. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Their mother had fussed at length over Leo’s scars; the small lines along his hands and half-hidden ones up his forearms. Tim’s own, scattered across his face, his neck, his arms — even his chest, as Leo saw when he burst in the bathroom the other morning, probably legs and back, too — were not addressed. Another shard of anger lodged itself in Leo’s throat. </p><p> </p><p>“Mm. Jane Prentiss was someone tied to that entity, which meant she had about a million awful <em> worm things </em>to sic on the Institute.” Tim’s jaw worked, clenching and unclenching as he paused for another second. “When she showed up, I was out getting lunch, and when I got back… It was like walking into a mausoleum, with how still it all was. It wasn't like I could hear all the death worms everywhere, but I knew things felt… off."</p><p> </p><p>Leo spared a brief moment to wonder how sick Tim must be of walking into mortal danger completely unaware. No wonder he’d been so quick to notice when Leo tailed him after leaving work so long ago — he didn’t want to be caught off guard again.</p><p> </p><p>“I definitely heard it when Sasha charged out of the back office shouting my name, and when I looked up, there it was. Prentiss. The Flesh Hive. Whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, I think I prefer Prentiss,” Leo grimaced. “Just for what it’s worth.”</p><p> </p><p>“You and me both. I went to— I don’t know, punch the thing, but Sasha tackled me before I could. Probably for the best, since I think if it landed I’d just have that many more scars to show for it.” Tim shook his head, and the look on his face made Leo’s chest hurt. The ache doubled at his words — <em> tackling </em> Tim to save his life was a move so deeply <em> Sasha </em>that it triggered a deluge of fondness turned to crumbing grief.  </p><p> </p><p>“Sasha put herself between me and a monster. Didn’t even hesitate. She grabbed me by the hand and— and we were going to run, but I let go and told her to get help. I’d keep their attention, she could make it out.”</p><p> </p><p>The car picked up speed as they pulled onto the motorway. “You can probably tell that I got all the attention I wanted and more.” Tim said it like it was meant to be a joke, but even if there was any humor to be found in something so awful, his deadened tone ruined it. “And… when she ran, she had to hide in artifact storage. She went in and…” </p><p> </p><p>“...And she didn’t come out,” Leo finished when it grew clear Tim couldn’t. Tim’s responding nod came in a jagged burst.</p><p> </p><p>“You asked what I meant when I said Jon was the only one who I knew wasn’t replaced. The thing that killed Sasha? Wasn’t enough to just <em> kill </em> her, no — it pretended to <em> be </em> her. We all thought that Sasha was fine. She pulled me and Jon out of that hell, and it— it wasn’t <em> her.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo knew what that meant. Not specifically, not the exact creature, but the signs were there. “It was a Stranger.”</p><p> </p><p>Mouth tight, Tim nodded. “And it being around is what kicked off Jon’s paranoia. I get back to the Institute after my leave, and Jon’s accusing me of murder, Martin’s pretending like all’s fine, and Sasha… isn’t Sasha. I had no idea. None.” </p><p> </p><p>There was no missing how the car sped up further, and still Tim talked. “I knew her for years, we— we went out together some, we worked together, I knew her in secondary school, I— She was my best friend, and then someone else comes in and says she’s not the same person, she’s not <em> human, </em> and I had no g-ddamn idea. According to Elias, she didn’t even look the same as the real Sasha did. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you what she fucking <em> looked like!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Faster still. Leo sat up in his seat. “Tim—”</p><p> </p><p>“Melanie— <em> Melanie </em> saw through it, and I didn’t. They talked, what, twice? And I— after that thing replaced her, she and I still— She was gone, and I didn’t know, and still no one cares! They all say it’s sad, it’s tragic, but no one ever <em> talks </em> about her, no one tries to find any unaffected pictures, <em> nothing—”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Tim, slow down—” </p><p> </p><p>“You’d think you’d realize when you kiss a monster, right? The one that <em> killed her, </em> because <em> killing her </em> wasn’t enough, it had to take her name, and her <em> body, </em> and her <em> life, </em>like she didn’t fight hard enough for all those, and I— She was murdered, right in the next g-ddamn room, and I let it happen! If didn’t tell her to run, or— or went with her, or—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Tim, </em> pull the car over, <em> now.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo’s hard demand managed to break through the increasingly fevered words still spilling out of Tim, until at last he realized how fast his agitation sent their car hurtling along. </p><p> </p><p>With a jerk of the wheel and a hissed, <em> “Shit,” </em>Tim pulled them to a sudden halt at the hard shoulder. As soon as the car stopped, he set his elbows against the top of the wheel so he could press the heels of his hands to his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>What was Leo supposed to do here? He got Tim to stop before they crashed, yes, but beyond that he had no idea. </p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes I— I have to take the tube to work,” Tim said after a long pause, so hoarse Leo’s throat hurt in sympathy. “‘Cause I feel like if I drive, I’ll—”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever he thought he might do, he cut himself off before he could voice it. He pulled back just enough that Leo could see how miserable he looked. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I just… haven’t really been able to talk about all this.”</p><p> </p><p>That, at least, Leo knew how to reply to. “Look, you’ve watched me have about a thousand different flavors of breakdown in the last week. I think you’re overdue for one or two.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim huffed out what might charitably be called a laugh before he went still and quiet again.</p><p> </p><p>“...Do you remember what she looked like? It’s okay if you don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim said it was okay, but Leo could tell just how much it meant to him. He forced himself to think as hard as he could, combing through each little fragment of the past that remained.</p><p> </p><p>“She had brown skin. And… freckles, I think. Lots.” He pushed for more, but things grew too hazy for him to say one way or the other. “Beyond that, I— I don’t know. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s eyes closed like he was trying to picture her, or the face he knew with the features Leo gave. </p><p> </p><p>“And… When I had to leave Dad’s house when we were younger, it was her I stayed with, right?”</p><p> </p><p>This, Leo knew, meant more than her appearance. He paused and made himself think again. Tim wouldn’t appreciate any placating lie. Besides, Leo would hate himself for adding any more dishonesty to the avalanche of it that had messed Tim up so badly in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>“When you left Mum’s house, you went to… Jordan’s, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>Memory was reliable that far, then. “And at Dad’s you… Yeah, you stayed with Sasha and her parents when you left there.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s head dropped again to land in his hands, but Leo could feel some measure of relief. That memory was real.</p><p> </p><p>After a pause where Tim made a doomed effort to hide his crying, he managed a small, “Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” The help Leo could give was so minute as to be almost insignificant, but at the same time, he knew it must feel like much more after this long with nothing. “If I remember anything else, I’ll let you know, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded again, lips pressed tight together. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>There was quiet again as Tim collected himself. When he sat back once more, Leo spoke up.</p><p> </p><p>“D’you want me to drive the rest of the way home?”</p><p> </p><p>Though Tim’s stare was meant to carry all his misgivings, it better showcased how puffy his eyes were. “You don’t still have your license, do you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Relax. I just won’t get pulled over.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Tim scrubbed his hands over his face, then looked back to the road. “As foolproof as that sounds, I think I can take care of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?” Leo tried to keep his tone light, but that surge of reckless abandon scared him — more because Tim didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it than any actual danger. </p><p> </p><p>Tim elbowed him with a faint attempt at a smile. “‘Course I’m sure. You’d think you’d get the whole, <em> older sibling means always right </em> thing by now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I just like being impertinent.” </p><p> </p><p>“No argument there.” Tim shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Leo. Sorry about all that.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to apologize.”</p><p> </p><p>“Take the damn apology.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo snorted. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess I have no choice! Apology taken, examined, and accepted.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim rolled his eyes as he pulled onto the road once again, then turned the radio back on. The music was no longer so loud Leo felt like his heart pumped the notes with his blood, but that was fine — it meant he could focus enough on what he saw to notice when his loud, off-key singing eventually pulled a smile from Tim, and was perfectly able to tease him without mercy for it. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Of everything that happened, throughout their whole visit and the drive back to Tim’s house, Leo didn’t anticipate the apology to be what stuck out most in his head by the next afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that Leo thought he shouldn’t have accepted it, of course. There was nothing there he thought needed an apology in the first place, but if it mattered to Tim then he would take it. </p><p> </p><p>No, this was about apologies not given. Not that Leo could even give it now, of course. He’d tried, but there hadn’t been time for anything but a few words. Certainly not enough to <em> prove </em>anything, not his remorse or a need to repair things so intense it made him nauseous. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t solve any of that, but from the way Tim had apologized to him, Leo thought he might get it. </p><p> </p><p>“She’s never going to forgive me,” he said when Tim came into the living room just as Leo gave up on yet another attempt to find something watchable on TV. He didn’t remember it ever being such a chore, but every show he passed felt stilted. Bland. So fake he could taste it.</p><p> </p><p>Tim glanced over to him as he opened his laptop. “Who, Mum?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Someday he’d stop beginning conversations in the middle. This was not that day. “The contortionist.”</p><p> </p><p>A pause as Tim stared at him. “And is that… a going concern, or something?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why wouldn’t it be?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is the short blonde one, right?” Still, Tim looked at him like he was talking about some inhuman monster rather than a friend. More than a friend. “Why do we care about her opinion, here?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo gave Tim just as blank a stare in return. “I— I love her, of course I—”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> what?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I… love her?” If Tim could react predictably for once, Leo would appreciate that. Just once. </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t answer for a long moment. <em> “...Why </em> feels like a weird question to ask, but <em> why?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah, that’s weird.” Christ, if Leo had known how hung up Tim would get on the <em> who, </em>he wouldn’t have bothered. At this rate, they’d never get to talk about how Leo might someday make all this up to her. </p><p> </p><p>“Just, from where I’m at, this is the one who wanted you to go have a fun chat with your evil boss because you were showing a little too much independence, and when you said no she used some kind of fucked up trigger phrase, right?” He set his laptop back on the coffee table. “That’s the one?”</p><p> </p><p>Part of Leo wanted to protest <em> evil, </em>but considering how Tim was reacting to everything else, here that’d be yet another rabbit hole he had no interest in exploring. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s— It’s not that simple! You don’t understand.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim sat forward, elbows set on his knees. “Then explain it to me. What don’t I know?”</p><p> </p><p>What Tim didn’t know about her could fill volumes. They could start with the big things, then. </p><p> </p><p>“She was the first one who was kind to me, Tim. And— and I already told you there wasn’t much in the way of first aid or anything, but if I got hurt at some point, she did what she could to help. She’s bright, and clever, and she always tried to keep me safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim still looked unconvinced. How was Leo supposed to address Tim’s hangups with all this when he wasn’t even sure what there was to get hung up on? Maybe a story would help. </p><p> </p><p>“Like… like right after I found you again the first time, she and I had a little impromptu show when I got back. Just for the rest of the performers, nothing major, but it was <em> fun. </em>She was on my shoulders, doing different tricks and all, but the whole time she guided me through. I was blindfolded.”</p><p> </p><p>“Blindfolded.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. That happened a lot; the last time I walked a tightrope I was blindfolded, too. I got used to it. I don’t know everything that she led me around because of that, but I know there was fire, a bed of nails, I <em> think </em>throwing knives?” Leo shrugged. “Something thrown, anyway. I couldn’t see a thing, but she made sure I wasn’t hurt too bad.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s eyes narrowed. “But you did still get hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well— I mean, yeah, but compared to a lot of shows it wasn’t much of anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” Tim looked no more comforted. Had Leo not explained the dance well enough? “And, just guessing here, was she the one who put the blindfold on you? That time, at least?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Yes? She was the one with me, so—”</p><p> </p><p>“So with all that,” Tim interrupted. “You had nothing but your trust in her to keep you from getting <em> really </em>hurt, and even when you followed that you got hurt anyway. Am I reading this right?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s how having a partner in a dangerous show <em> works!</em> Of course I trusted her. If I didn’t, we never would have been able to perform together at all.” Leo didn’t want to argue, but Tim wasn’t <em> getting it. </em>“And we performed together a lot, all through the time I was there. She was really patient with me when I was still learning how everything there worked. No matter how badly I messed up, as long as I proved I was sorry she always forgave me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, <em> proved?” </em>Tim’s voice gained a sharp edge. “Proved how?”</p><p> </p><p>“It was— It doesn’t matter.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I think it damn well does matter!”</p><p> </p><p>None of that was the point. Leo had been doing well the past couple days too, not much in the way of panic attacks or anything. He didn’t want to break that streak. “Tim, I— I don’t want to talk about that.”</p><p> </p><p>Even in all his baffling anger, Tim knew not to push. “Fine. But I think the fact that you can’t talk about that says a <em> lot, </em> Leo.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t talk about a lot of things from then,” Leo argued. “Are you going to blame her for all of them?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim tossed his hands in the air. “When she’s connected, you’re g-ddamn right I will!”</p><p> </p><p>“She did what she was told, same as me!”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a hell of a difference between you standing on a stage and her saying something that made you react like she just <em> stabbed </em> you when you didn’t listen to her,” Tim shot back.</p><p> </p><p>Leo leveled him with a cold glare. “If you think I wasn’t complicit in any of the things that happened there in four years, no deaths or anything, you’re being naive.”</p><p> </p><p>A strange urge to tell more stories hit Leo, stories about shows like his last without any of the same ill-timed clarity. For every death he remembered, he knew there were three more he did not. He didn’t know where the urge even came from, only that it was strong.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it would prove that, whatever Tim thought of the contortionist, Leo was no better.</p><p> </p><p>Only then did Leo realize Tim was repeating his name. Shit, thinking about it made him drift. He shook his head in some weak attempt to clear the static fuzz.</p><p> </p><p>When it was clear that Leo had returned to himself, Tim continued with his voice tight in restraint. “What is it that you even want her to forgive you for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Leaving. I didn’t tell her about finding you again, or about the plan to get Jon out, or any of it. I <em> know </em>I should have trusted her, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t have.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo looked over to him, taken aback. Even if Tim’s weird double-standard meant he wasn’t fond of the contortionist, surely he understood how important honesty was in a relationship. “You saw how hurt and upset she was when she realized how much I was hiding from her!”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and then she called for everyone to chase us so they could skin us all,” Tim replied flatly.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re just saying that because you saw us at the worst time.” Leo’s knee bounced as his frustration built. “That wasn’t exactly a normal day.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim thought for a moment, then said, “Do you remember when I dated Chase in uni?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, kind of,” Leo replied, thrown by the non-sequitur. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“And do you remember why you didn’t like him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Literally every time I saw you together, you were arguing.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I told you it wasn’t always like that, we loved each other, all that.” Tim’s arms folded. “That was all true. We had good days. I did love him. He did love me. It still wasn’t healthy.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo shook his head when he realized Tim’s point. “This is different.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because they’re pretty g-ddamn different situations!”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right,” Tim agreed to Leo’s surprise. <em> “He </em>wasn’t holding my life in his hands at every waking minute.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo pushed himself up off the couch. “Christ, <em> fine,</em> I get it: you don’t like her. Well, sorry, but I can’t exactly uproot everything I feel about her from my head!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not asking you to.” The argumentative tone drew out of Tim’s voice. “If that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel. Just… think about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim cut off what sounded like the beginnings of a sigh. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then he too stood and clapped his hands together. “Well, this has been fun, but it’s about time to change the bandages on your back. Might be able to take them off for good, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” </p><p> </p><p>The whole process was much smoother now that Tim had acclimated a little more to the sight of Leo’s scars, though Leo still hated being shirtless as much as ever. Tim was rather quick by this point, so it was never for long. </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s announcement that he needed no fresh wraps brought both relief and curiosity. He had no idea what effect this slow sort of healing would have on his skin. </p><p> </p><p>Rather than tug his shirt on, he made his way into the bathroom. Tim leaned against the doorframe. With the mirror in its usual place plus another one on the opposite wall — there’d always been one there, right? — it was easy for him to see everything no longer covered by gauze. </p><p> </p><p>Long lines traced across his skin from his shoulders to the small of his back. There were only a few deeper scars, each with faint spiderwebbed cracks branching from the ends. The rest were nothing but pale stripes. </p><p> </p><p>Leo waited for the low curl of dread that always used to come with the thought of marks on his skin. It never showed. Maybe being around Tim desensitized him, considering the design across his back and black bands tattooed around his upper arms, plus no shortage of his own scars. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure they’ll fade more with time,” Tim said, watching Leo’s face. He likely expected that same dread. </p><p> </p><p>They wouldn’t, he knew, no more than a crack in ceramic would close over on its own. Even with all Tim’s care, he couldn’t change the way of things. </p><p> </p><p>But it was the contortionist who’d first cared for this, wasn’t she? Because he’d proven his remorse and earned her forgiveness, she came to him with a soft cloth and gentle words. Like Tim, she was able to ground him. If doing so took his only escape from how much it all hurt, that was no fault of hers. She couldn’t be blamed for circumstance. </p><p> </p><p>Tim cleared his throat. “I think—”</p><p> </p><p><em>“Shh.</em> Shut up.” Tim’s brows rose, but Leo continued before he could say anything. “I’m mourning my modeling career, give me a minute.” </p><p> </p><p>A beat, then Tim broke down into disbelieving laughter. Leo tried for a grin. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, unless someone needs a model that looks like they spent time as a practice dummy in an anatomy 101 class.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Leo, that’s <em> terrible—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Danny.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s laughter petered out. “...You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He thought, just to be safe, but there was no need. “Yeah, I think I am.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded back with a smile. “Got it. Just say the word if you need to swap back, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>When Danny emerged from pulling his shirt back on, it was to see himself looking back in a now-singular mirror with Tim, as always, at his side. </p><p> </p><p>Danny Stoker, master of none. Got more of a ring to it every day.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="notranslate">
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs:<br/>in the skippable scene: emotional abuse, homophobia, disregarding cultures (in their mother disliking when danny and tim sign around her, their father disliking both that and them speaking malay, and both refusing to learn the language/s) transmisogyny (one comment that tim shuts right the fuck down), discussion of tim getting kicked out of their parents' houses sporadically<br/>otherwise: past child abuse, mentioned ableism (specifically their mother disregarding BSL and namesigns), a mention of tim going on dates with not!sasha (not detailed or in any way graphic but worth the warning bc it's under false pretenses), tim's canonical suicidal ideation, past relationship abuse, trauma bonds, past unhealthy relationships (not abusive, but toxic to both parties), past grooming and gaslighting</p><p>malay translations (and special thanks to @coralreefskim on tumblr for helping with this!):<br/>sayang - sweetheart<br/>ibu - mom<br/>it didn't come up, but tim also has a malaysian middle name, sulung!</p><p>for those interested, ron <a href="https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/">@gerrydelano</a> put together a <a href="https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/post/616762025902735360/fuck-it-gerrytitan-masterpost">masterpost</a> of both of our works, and outlines how all (yes, all) our fics intersect both directly and in easter eggs! if you’ve got quarantine fever as bad as us, here’s plenty of fics and more to kill some time</p><p>in the wings: old roles, new stages</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. THE CHARIOT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On speech, silence, and how not to regain control.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>bringing this back around to larger plot - specific warnings in the end note as always!</p>
<p>suggested listening: it’s a trip! by joywave</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Danny, mirror!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny couldn’t claim to know exactly what happened with the bathroom mirror this morning, but considering Tim didn’t shout again, he assumed everything was once again as it should be. That, or close enough Tim decided it wasn’t worth bothering with further. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their morning routine was a simple one — when Tim had the bathroom, Danny nursed a coffee and attempted to feel something in the realm of human. When Tim left and Danny could take it, Tim made breakfast. By the time they finished eating Danny was finally, fully awake. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim didn’t need anywhere close to as long to wake up. No, he was chipper enough in the morning that Danny often considered beating him with pillows for his crime of daring to speak full sentences before the clock hit double digits. Bastard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he did every time they went to the Institute, Danny spent each minute from the time he woke to when they reached the tunnel door steeling himself for the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck for hours. Never pleasant. Not something he could acclimate to, either. From Tim’s occasional grimaces it was clear he felt the same. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Solidarity was nice, yes, but Danny would prefer skipping the place entirely. He could always stay home, he supposed. Stay home and lose his mind with boredom in thirty minutes, tops. At least if he was here, he could be useful. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Spending all day sorting boxes as he did his best to ignore how watched he felt wasn’t ideal. Feeling stir-crazy and useless was worse. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The creak of old wood interrupted him as he once again settled for a lesser of two evils. Tim’s eyes went narrow and hard as he whipped around to face a familiar door just across from the archives, his arm already out to block Danny.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The woman looking back seemed pleasant enough, though even discerning that was difficult. Her red cat-eye glasses reflected scenery Danny didn’t recognize.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not going into your freaky halls for a third time, thanks. If that’s why you’re here, you can piss off,” Tim snapped before the woman could speak.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her head tilted. She moved like no one else Danny had ever seen, like every motion was formed of a thousand different still images that fell somewhere near the position of where he knew she must be. Rotoscoped.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No. I only wanted to talk.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sure. Sorry, but—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not to you.” She nodded at Danny, and he was ninety percent sure she looked at him when she did so. “To him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, no way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny pushed Tim’s shielding arm to the side. “I think it’s fine, Tim. It’s just a conversation.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So it can pull you in and— and eat you, or whatever the hell it does!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can’t make you open the door.” A smile flickered across her face like a half-burnt lightbulb. “Besides, he’s far too familiar with the unfamiliar to be any fun.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim shot her another glare, but Danny didn’t give him the chance to argue. “Look, go on ahead. I’ll be fine. Just say no to spooky unreality halls, right?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...Fine, but if you’re not back in five minutes—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then you’ll come back guns-blazing.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny could tell Tim was already second-guessing his agreement even as he nodded and went into the archives. If Danny knew him, he’d be counting seconds. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s rather overprotective, isn’t he?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny shrugged. “Considering the circumstances, not really. Rest assured, it goes both ways.” His smile carried the unsaid end of the sentence without trouble: <em> so don’t try anything with him. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bar the inexact edges to her form, she looked remarkably normal. Danny wondered if that was due to the effect of the Eye or a choice on her part. Rather than address the mild threat, she said, “I think I was wrong. You would be <em> such </em>a fun challenge — could I find your fear of what is not what it is when you do not know you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fun, sure, but I’m good. I’ve had enough reality-questioning for at least another month or two,” Danny replied lightly. “Helen, right?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He expected another spiraling curl of her lips, but she looked only thoughtful. “Maybe. I’m still deciding. And you’re the ringmaster?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m Leo. Lately I’ve been Danny.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Still caught between a who and a what, then?” Helen’s clothes rippled like cuttlefish skin, and Danny couldn’t tell where one color ended and the next began. It wasn’t like it mattered.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“More that I’m too many whos, I think.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Helen nodded as if this made perfect sense. To her, it must, or else sense was simply no longer a meter she measured by. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And are you between a who and a what, yourself?” Danny asked. “Or between two whos?” There was that other figure before her, after all. It wasn’t as if he remembered much from that moment beyond ice-cold terror, but laughter like a headache and its piercing wail when it crumpled were hard to forget. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m a who and a who and a what, and none of them match.” She ran her nails along the doorframe, sending long curls of yellow falsehoods drifting to the linoleum. “Helen liked talking to the Archivist, so I was going to see him, but he isn’t here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He isn’t?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s in America.” Her nose may have scrunched. “Helen liked talking to him, but she disliked being in America more.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny shrugged. “I never met Helen, but I think I understand, at least a little.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, you don’t.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, and that’s the part no one else would understand, right?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Helen smiled like he had just solved a riddle. “I like you, ringmaster.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Delightful.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She laughed, less like a headache and more like a nosebleed. “You’re fun. If you ever get sick of all those people trying to solve you, you know where to find me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, I don’t.” Danny gave her his own smile, the strange sort he knew she would appreciate. “Isn’t that the point?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another low groan of wood as the door opened behind her. Danny didn’t bother to try and parse anything he saw beyond — only that things were bright and mirrored and not what they were. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know where to find <em> you, </em>then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is that a threat or a promise?” There was no fear in the question, not when this was the most interesting conversation Danny had in ages. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Helen winked with neon geometry. “You decide, and I decide. We’ll see if our decisions match when they find each other again.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another creak, and she was never there. No doors in the Institute, wooden or otherwise, had ever been painted yellow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Danny stepped into the archives, Tim’s head snapped over like the door’s unlatch was a gunshot. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before Tim could ask if he was alright, Danny called, “Still not dead.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aim higher.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not dead, still breathing, still have all my limbs.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>To his surprise, it was Martin who answered. “Always good!  Come on, we’re going to… plan things, I guess.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny looked up to see that not only were Tim and Martin there as he expected, but that they were joined by Melanie, Basira, and to his chagrin, Daisy. Going to sit near Basira meant getting that much closer to Daisy, but that was a danger Danny was willing to take if it meant he had some protection. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he settled, Melanie spoke the question he was thinking. “So, what exactly are we planning? Did Jon figure out something about how to stop the Unknowing?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Doubtful. Danny didn’t know how to tell them their mission was doomed, but at the same time, what did it harm? Maybe attempting to fight back was a waste of time, but if they tried to fight it, they might find some way to reconcile that with the changed world. They could believe they did their part. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, let them plan if it helped them sleep at night. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Apparently, if we want to <em> stop </em> the Unknowing rather than just delay it, we’ll have to interrupt it after it begins,” Martin answered. “Jon said something about a potential lead. I don’t know <em> what, </em>but something.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie raised a brow. “Wow, encouraging.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Until we know what it is, there’s not a whole lot we can do there,” Basira cut in. “But we still do have a source of information.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What is it?” Danny asked. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every eye in the room turned to him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...Right.<em> ” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Unless there’s someone else here who knows what might happen during the thing,” Basira asserted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hold on.” Tim sat up at his desk. “We’re not gonna <em> interrogate </em> him, so if that’s what you’re getting at—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blatantly ignoring the interruption, Basira continued to address Danny. “If there’s stuff you can’t talk about, don’t make yourself, but you know more about this than any of us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny’s arms folded. “It’s not like Nikola told me whatever her plans were. All I know is that it’s happening. I don’t know how, I don’t know when. I know where, but so do you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Casualties.” Daisy didn’t move from her place leaned against a desk on Basira’s other side, but her head tilted forward so she could meet Danny’s eyes. Watching for tells, maybe. “This thing’s a cult. Cult rituals need sacrifices.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira cut in. “Supernatural ones trying to end the world, anyway.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How many are we looking at?” Daisy finished.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Worry about casualties from <em> Daisy </em>of all people, that was rich. Danny wasn’t about to forget how she looked holding Tim in the sight of her pistol, and could only wonder what her usual cost-benefit analysis looked like. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The Unknowing’s a show. A show needs an audience. My guess is that whatever happens, none of them are walking away from this one.” Danny sighed as he propped his head up on a couple fingers set against his temple. “And the audience for this one will be big. I was very good at my job.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie spoke up from her place perched on a desk across the room. “Your job?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“People had to know there was a show, and the best form of advertising is word-of-mouth. That’s usually what I spent my time doing between each performance.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The atmosphere in the room went a little colder, not that it surprised him. He wasn’t going to apologize for it. He did what he had to do.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira’s brows knit. “You said you didn’t know when the Unknowing is, though. How does that work if you invited people to it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shrugged. “The same way I never mentioned show times, or gave people directions to wherever we set up. When the curtains rose, they’d be in their seats every time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin’s head cocked. “So if you invited us—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t know if it’d even work now, and besides — you don’t want to be there for a <em> regular </em>show. The Unknowing will be even stronger.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That wouldn’t give us any prep time, either,” Tim added. “Not if we got pulled that way just soon enough for the very start.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, the audience. We don’t know how many, but a lot,” Daisy reiterated to bring them back to the original point. “Anyone else you can think of?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He tugged on the cuffs of his hoodie. “Remember when the contortionist asked me to put you all with the backup costumes when I was leading you out?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie nodded. “I wondered why you didn’t just… go along with that? We would’ve been fine standing around in a closet for a while.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny almost laughed. “None of you would have been able to hold it together if I did. Even if no one noticed the Archivist, everyone would know once one of you panicked, and one of you <em> would </em>panic. You all know that there, <em>costume</em> means skin as much as it does clothes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So… a closet full of people’s skin?” Melanie asked with a curled lip. He shook his head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The backup costumes are people. Still alive, mostly comatose. They just… stand off to the side, backstage. If one of the troupe wants something new they might pick one of them. If someone’s bored, they might wake one to get that rush of fear.” Danny looked over the room. “I decided that the chances of panic were too high in the middle of that.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Silence, until Martin broke it with, “That’s… probably fair.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How many?” Daisy sounded unbothered. If Danny had to pick one who would’ve been able to keep her cool in that position, it would be her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I— I don’t know. A dozen, maybe?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira hummed in thought. “Will we be able to snap them out of it even if we aren’t a part of all that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It always looked simple enough from what I saw,” Danny replied as he folded his arms again. “It might be that if they get away from the circus, they’ll come back to themselves.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Until the world changed, anyway. He wasn’t sure giving them that brief moment of clarity was anything but cruel. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I wonder how many missing persons cases that would solve,” Basira said, more to Daisy than the room. Daisy’s brows raised as she nodded. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim sat forward, expression locked in what Danny now knew was not a <em> said-something-wrong </em> face, but rather, <em> holy-hell-I-want-to-punch-a-mannequin. </em>A fine distinction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, we’re going to get them out, then. Should we sneak in before the Unknowing to do that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think it’ll have to be like whatever we use to stop the whole thing,” Basira replied. “We can’t until the show starts. The circus will notice if they’re gone beforehand, right?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny nodded. “But— You all haven’t been there during a show before. I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as going to a certain place backstage and finding them all ready and waiting.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You agreed doing it before the show isn’t possible.” Daisy shifted her weight where she stood. “And there’s no way to get to the audience before. We’d have to wait for it to begin either way.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin spoke up from his desk. “Could we maybe keep the audience from going in at all?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shaking his head, Danny said, “The show won’t start without anyone to watch it. All that’ll do is give yourself away as soon as other members of the troupe come to investigate.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Quiet filled the room as the others considered their new, less than hopeful knowledge, until at last Danny sighed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Look, none of you guys will be able to navigate once the show starts. Think how those halls were when we were running, then multiply that by a hundred. Even if you keep your cool, even if you’re perceptive, you won’t know who you are. You might not know<em> what </em> you are. You might not even know <em> what </em>is a concept that meant anything to you at some point.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, we’re not going to just leave those people to— to get <em> skinned, </em>or whatever.” Martin’s voice was firm, as if it was merely their own choice that decided whether they succeeded or failed. “We’ll think of something.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny thought a moment longer. The suggestion was suicide, but so was all of this. What did it matter?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can navigate in there. I’ll be able to find them mid-show, and they’ll listen to me. If we figure out how, I can get them to follow me out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How do you know?” Basira pressed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think it’s pretty clear at this point that leaving the troupe didn’t suddenly revert me back to exactly how I was before all this.” One only needed to put him near a mirror to see that, though he wasn’t too interested in party tricks right at that moment. “I can still be the ringmaster if it means they listen. I’m good with words.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s not new,” Tim chimed in. “One time in secondary school, he talked a teacher into giving him full marks on an exam he never took. No idea how, still.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I told her I took it and described a few of the questions I ‘remembered’ answering based on what one of my classmates said.” Danny shrugged. “Apparently my bollocks was close enough she thought there was no way I <em> hadn’t </em>taken it. She offered to give me some bonus points for the trouble, but I graciously declined.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He expected Martin to be the sort to fret about how he should have more respect for the school system or some other nonsense, as if a class he took fifteen years ago could possibly still matter, but Martin looked only impressed. Huh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, we’re just going to send you by yourself and assume you won’t lose it, then? Turn back into full-ringmaster mode?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At Daisy’s matter-of-fact tone, Tim sat stiff and upright. “He’s not some horror movie villain with an <em> evil alternate personality </em> or something—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “But </em>it’s possible, Tim.” Whatever Danny wanted to be, there was no denying the influence of colorspin chaos. “I— I don’t know. Jon might be able to see a little more clearly, maybe even help some of you do the same, but until he gets back… I don’t know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira gave him a long look, then turned back to the room. “However we end up going about it, we’ll need to make sure we have some kind of escape route.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How do we know they won’t just find whatever we do and take it apart?” Melanie asked. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Assuming whatever happens means we could even find it again,” Danny added.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin rested his chin in his hand. “Could we put some kind of marker on a back exit? Related to the Eye, maybe, so it might be clear even if everything else… isn’t.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira nodded, though she didn’t look pleased. “I didn’t want Jon to come with us if we went back before everything, but he’s probably the only one who’d know what we’d need, where.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And I’m not staying behind this time.” Martin’s face was resolute, though his politely raised hand belied it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daisy and Basira met eyes, then Basira said, “All of us, then? Daisy and I should both be there. Tim, are—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m coming,” Tim said before she could finish.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right. Jon has to come, and Leo.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Danny.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira looked over to him. “Ongoing, or just for now?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ongoing. I might switch back, but I’ll let you know.” Across the room, Tim sent him a thumbs up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Got it. Melanie, are you coming?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie chewed her lip. “It’s probably not a good idea for all of us to be there, right? If this is just reconnaissance, I mean.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Part of Danny wondered if it’d be better to bring Melanie instead of Martin, considering she was smaller and assumedly faster, and did seem to know how to use the knife she kept in her belt, but if this was recon then fresh eyes could be useful. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By her hesitation and eventual nod, Basira came to the same conclusion. “If we need anything done back here, I’ll let you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Decision made, she scanned the lot of them once more.</span> “Until Jon gets back, I think that’s all we can do. It’ll probably be pretty soon after he lands, so everyone be ready for that.” She paused. “Uh, break.” Were he not right next to her, Danny would have missed her immediate, minute wince. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As soon Martin took mercy on Basira for her awkward closing and started up some conversation with Tim, she turned to Danny.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I haven’t been able to catch you recently, but there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Because I’ve been avoiding you, </em>Danny thought, but he nodded for her to continue.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You deserve an apology.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He blinked in surprise. “What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We put you in a shit position when we were planning to rescue Jon.” She busied herself with collecting her belongings into a neat stack, though rather than set it on top, she kept one book in hand. “Part of it was that we didn’t plan on leaving you there when we got Jon out, which meant you just needed to worry about those few days, not however they might react to him being gone and how that’d reflect on you. I didn’t realize until after that you didn’t know that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny could feel that same old smile flicker in and out. “I thought I would have to let them just… finish with me. To make up for it all.” It felt cruel to tell her. He should’ve just said he understood, that he should have assumed as much when the plans were being made, that he knew Tim would never leave him there. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>None of it would be lies, but it was far easier to see that from the outside. Back then, when he couldn’t fathom leaving the troupe, why would he ever have expected them to take him along with Jon? Why would he assume they would do anything but leave him in the place he felt was knit into his very being? Why would he anticipate anything but punishment?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To Basira’s credit, she showed no over-the-top guilt, the sort that demanded forgiveness for how pitiful it was. There was remorse, but of a much neater sort. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right. We were moving fast to make sure we got Jon out before anything happened to him, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t explain that you wouldn’t have to do anything like that. You were stuck thinking that we screwed you over for Jon, and that was messed up.” She kept her composure well, but her fingers tapped in a nonsense rhythm against the spine of her book. “So, I’m sorry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um. Thanks…?” He wasn’t sure how he was meant to take something like this. Should <em> he </em>apologize for so badly misunderstanding them, or not asking further questions? Before he could decide, she nodded once more and stood, then crossed to where Melanie sat. Rather than stay behind, Danny followed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever they talked about, he didn’t listen. There was no reason to. He leaned on a nearby shelf and relaxed as best as he was able with Daisy still in the corner of his eye. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Basira’s conversation ended and she made her way into the archive shelves, he kept close. She didn’t let the matter lie, not when it wasn’t as if he was trying to hide. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are you following me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Without speaking, Danny nodded towards her partner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Because of Daisy?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She wants to kill me still. Tim wouldn’t let her, but she wouldn’t care if she hurt him. She won’t hurt you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Tim’s a civilian,” Basira replied. “She’s not going to just… shoot him, or something.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not even if she decided I was a threat worth the collateral?” Danny tilted his head. “She seemed to think I was when we first met.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira’s face was unreadable. “Are you one?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...I don’t want to be.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And I don’t think you are, either. She knows that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is that supposed to make me feel any safer?” Danny asked, disbelieving. “That you disagree on whether I’m worth killing? Why would that keep her from acting?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Basira didn’t hesitate. “Because she and I are partners.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That, it seemed, was that. Basira turned back to the shelves. This time, Danny did not follow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t long before Tim came up behind him. “I’m gonna pop up to the break room and get something to eat. D’you wanna come?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I could use the walk.” And the space from Daisy. He might get where Basira was coming from better, kind of, but that didn’t mean he liked her partner. “Sure.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They walked in silence for a minute before Tim broke it. “What are you thinking about all this?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny gave a loose shrug. “I don’t even know if I buy that it’s possible to stop the Unknowing.” An understatement, but a polite one. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“From the sound of it, Jon’s gonna have all the answers when he gets back. Some of ‘em might even be right.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “Yeah, I know,” </em> Danny replied. <em> “But even if he has some kind of lead, I don’t think—” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim interrupted before he could finish the thought, wide-eyed. “Wow, alright, um… If you want to speak Malay, I’m gonna need you to slow down — not really that fluent anymore.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not quite the response Danny expected. <em> “I said that in Malay?” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another long stare. “And that was French, which is… fun. Multicultural.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “...I don’t speak French.” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, me either. You’re lucky I remember enough from the semester I took in uni to know how to say I don’t speak it.” He shot a finger gun at Danny in a weak attempt to hide growing concern. “If you need someone to count to ten, though, I’m your man.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was odd to force himself to speak English when he hadn’t realized he spoke anything but. The scattered Malay and fragments of Chinese he retained from growing up were nowhere near total fluency. “I… didn’t know that was a thing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What, that you have a side job as a translator?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I guess,” Danny said with a helpless laugh as they got to the break room. “It makes sense, I think.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim turned away from the fridge to send him a flat look. “Literally <em> how </em> does it make sense?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean, I don’t ever remember language being an issue when leading shows, and I can’t imagine we only ever went to English-speaking countries.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why would you flip to languages I don’t speak if that was why?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You do speak them, though,” Danny countered. “I mean, you’re not fluent, but I don’t think it was an accident that it was two you’re familiar with.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim’s brows knit. “Maybe… Can you do Chinese? I still know a bit of that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “I don’t really know how to turn it on and off, Tim. It’s not like I have some kind of mental button or something, and…” </em> He trailed off. <em> “And I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You don’t even have an accent. Cool.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Again, Danny took a moment to consciously choose English. “How are you not— not weirded-out, or something?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Considering when you flipped to Malay I thought I might be having a stroke, this is better.” Tim’s eyes moved past where Danny sat at a small table to look at the door behind him. “Melanie, hey! Can you speak anything besides English?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny turned to see her give Tim a baffled look. “Uh, in secondary school I learned a bit of—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t say what it is! Danny, try it.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny shot a glare at Tim over his shoulder. “Sorry, we were just talking about this thing I can apparently do where <em> I start speaking different… G-ddammit.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her eyes went round before he finished, and that was giveaway enough. He sighed. “Anyone wanna tell me what language that was?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No idea!” Tim announced, grinning. “Russian, maybe?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ukranian,” Melanie corrected without breaking her stare. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where the hell did you go that taught <em> Ukranian?” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think that’s a little less pressing than how Danny can just— just pop into that like he’s the bloody Duolingo owl!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The comparison made Danny laugh. “Honestly, no idea how. I didn’t know it happened ‘til about two minutes ago.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie shook her head as she crossed to the sink to wash the mug she’d brought with her. “You should try that with Basira.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why’s that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She knows BSL,” Melanie explained over her shoulder. “I think her parents were deaf? It might be interesting to know if it works for <em> any </em>language, or if it’s just spoken ones.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Interesting, yeah, but I already know BSL." He sat back, thoughtful. "If I meet someone who knows a different sign language, though, I'll give it a shot."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She’s pretending like it’s for science,” Tim said. “But really she was hoping she could get you to freak out Basira the same way you did to her."</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “Not </em>true!” Melanie retorted, but there was a playful tone to it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, fine. If she sends you after Martin, though, just know she’s making you an accomplice.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Melanie snatched the dish towel nearest to her and, after a quick wink at Danny, took an end in each hand, spun it tight, and flicked her wrist to whip it towards Tim.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A sharp snapping noise cracked the air apart, and the ringmaster’s vision went every color outside reality. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he could see again, it was to the image of his brother sitting on the floor across from him with lips forming silent words. When had they sat on the ground? Who decided this was a good place to sit? His brother needed to speak up, the ringmaster couldn’t make out a thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was, to his faint puzzlement, because hands were pressed over his ears. His hands. All he could hear was the rush of blood and that whipcrack snap, over and over and over. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fractured seconds passed in the dozens before he could lessen his vice-grip fingers’ lock around his skull; and still more before he could understand the words his brother— Tim, <em> Tim, </em>yes — was repeating in a low voice. Had probably been repeating ever since someone decided the floor was as good as any chair. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re at the Institute right now. There’s no one here who will hurt you. You’re safe here, Danny. You’re with me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny. Right. Yes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The floor was cold, and the wall at his back was colder. He wished it grounded him rather than just make his skin crawl. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After what felt like eons, his hands lowered. Tim reached out and, once given a nod of permission, nudged Danny's sleeve up a bit to take hold of his wrist. Taking his hand did work, but for some reason this often helped more. Maybe it was something to do with pressure points. Maybe it was a mental thing, replacing the cold restraint he expected with a warm one. Maybe there was no reason at all beyond simple preference. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Regardless, it brought his heart rate a little closer to normal. He glanced around, but Melanie was long gone. His chair still laid on its back on the floor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wished these breakdowns were anything else besides humiliating. G-d, they were having a nice time, too. Joking around. Considering the last time he saw Tim and Melanie together they were at each other's throats, it was even better. Melanie had winked, making him a part of the whole thing with ease, and then it all went to hell because he couldn’t keep himself in check. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you able to talk right now?” Tim asked, so patient it made Danny want to scream. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“D’you know what set you off, so we can try and make sure it doesn’t happen again?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And now here they were, setting up yet another little boundary in the ever-growing pile of things Danny wasn’t able to handle. It didn’t help matters that every time something hit as hard as this, he felt like a damn kid; curled up and pressed as close as he could into some corner with his hands over his ears. Wide-eyed and staring and exhaling apologies with every breath. Helpless. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The— the sound.” He flicked his free wrist in a slow motion. “When she snapped the towel.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He could almost see the pieces fit together in Tim’s mind. The sound. The panic attack. The injuries on Danny’s back when he first arrived. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If each were a puzzle piece, there was no doubting that Tim hated the picture they formed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He already knew what that final picture would be, of course. Tim was intelligent. It was also much easier to fall into comforting denial with only one fragment to go off of. Few lies were as pretty as, <em> surely not. It couldn’t be. There’s no way, no. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Got it. Is it okay with you if I tell her what happened, so she knows? She was pretty worried. Would’ve stuck around, but I know you prefer less people.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny should’ve felt some gratitude that Tim was so cognizant of his triggers. He should’ve been thankful for his caution, and for how he made sure to get Danny’s permission before telling others anything about how messed up he was. He should’ve appreciated how damn <em> hard </em>Tim was trying. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He did. Every other time, he did, and here he could only hate himself for how it all made him desperate to claw off his own skin. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t as if he <em> wanted </em> to feel this way, or that he would rather be alone in it. Why couldn’t he just keep it in his head? Not have panic attacks in the middle of something <em> good </em> and <em> fun?  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Christ, he was going to have to look Melanie in the eye after this. <span>She was plenty intelligent herself, no doubt she’d put together why that sound freaked him out this much even without Tim’s added context.</span> Would she think about it every time she saw his face? Would she wonder about frequency, or severity, or how he looked curled on this floor versus how he must have looked there? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nothing malicious, no. Nothing cruel. Simply the way thoughts worked. One led to another led to another in a chain long enough to choke him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One more person here was one too many. Such little oxygen in a small room, and Danny didn’t feel much like sharing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fine. You can go ahead down if you want.” Tim didn’t want to, Danny knew, but hoped he’d get the message. “I’ll be there in a minute.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny knew that. He knew, he knew, he knew, and that was the <em> problem </em>today for a reason he couldn’t even articulate. “Yeah. I just need a moment by myself.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blessedly, Tim didn’t argue further. “...Sure, that’s fine. Uh, I don’t know if anyone else from around here might pop in, but most people use the break room on the north side of the building. You should be alright for a bit.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mm.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a charitable attempt at hiding how uncertain he was, Tim stood. “I’ll be there whenever you’re ready, yeah?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mhm.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he left, Tim made sure to take the chair Danny had knocked over and set it back up on its feet. Danny wished he understood why that almost made him snap. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he was at last alone, he let his legs fall from their place curled against his chest. He tried for a deep breath, but when it came out in a rattle he felt about ready to light himself on fire. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t as if he was actually<em> alone, </em>anyway. Not here. Not with the Eye and Elias able to watch him as much as they pleased. They could do so anywhere he went, but there was a hell of a difference between binoculars and a microscope. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He needed to get out of here. Tim went to the gym in those moods where everything was too much, and Danny vaguely remembered long runs as a way he used to decompress. He wasn’t dressed for that, of course, but a walk might help. If it meant he felt like he had some control of himself again, he’d do just about anything. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He told Tim he’d be back in the archives in a minute, but Tim could hold his damn horses. Danny would be back when he was good and ready. If that meant cracking Tim’s unshaken patience, so be it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even after walking for what felt like ages (though with his ADHD, could have been only minutes), he felt no different. He came to no epiphanies. His thoughts flicked through everything Tim had done to help him just before and attempted to find the gratitude he knew they should call out, and every time he came up empty. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Why? </em>Why couldn’t he just turn it off if he was able to recognize how unfair it was? He knew it made no sense, and he wanted to feel how he was supposed to feel. He did. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wasn’t sunshine supposed to be a cure-all? The sort of thing that took awful moods and put them in flawless perspective, like no trouble known to man could stand against a bit of vitamin D? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The nice weather was pleasant, Danny supposed, but still he felt only restless. <em> Bored, </em>even. How boredom could kick in so soon after a severe flashback, he couldn’t fathom, but again its own nonsense didn’t make the feeling vanish — all it did was irritate him further. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was just about to resign himself to his bad mood and trudge back to the Institute when the city’s clamor shifted. Still loud, but loud in a different way — a more <em> interesting </em>way. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Looking closer was no crime. Maybe there’d be something to take the edge off his boredom, or at least sate his curiosity. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just ahead and around one corner he found chaos that the police scattered about were doing their best to dress up as organized. Barricades fell in haphazard lines on both sides of the present street, and cars fell in a loose circle around a building crouched in the eye of the storm. People gathered in clumps around the perimeter to watch the show. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Did he just stumble on an active bank robbery, of all things? It was so cinematic he could weep. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He couldn’t see much from such an outlying position. Rather than settle for that, he skirted his way through towards the back of the building, where the people grew sparse, and tugged off his hoodie as he went. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Picking who to approach was a breeze. One officer hovered nervously by a car, fingers dancing along a radio like he was waiting for a call to tell him what to do. Danny was glad to provide. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hell of a thing to happen out of nowhere, huh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man blinked, then attempted to put on an authoritative tone. “Sir, please— please stay back! Civilians need to stay behind the perimeter.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny winked. “Oh, not to worry, then! Must be a long day for you, though, and so <em> hot, </em>too. I bet that jacket is sweltering.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I— What? I mean, yeah, I guess, but—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t mind holding it if you’d like! I’m glad to help out a fellow interested party. Strength in numbers and all, right?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What are you—” The man blinked again even as his coat slid down his shoulders. Sweat ran down his face, and he shook his head like his ears were full of water. “Civilians should— Um—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny took the jacket before it slipped from the man’s loose fingers.  “Good thing we already agreed there’s no issue here, right?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did we—” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes!” Danny swung the man’s coat around his own shoulders, then tapped the badge patch on the breast. “Both here for official business, aren’t we?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man squinted, face drawn into hazy confusion. “I don’t— Yes, I— I suppose…? But I thought—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Marvelous.” He set his hoodie in the man’s dazed hands. “Do you mind holding that for me? I promise I won’t be long!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another slow blink. “I don’t… Who are…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Danny winked again. “I was never here, was I?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before the poor rookie officer could stumble out another attempt at words, Danny was off. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When outside became inside, Danny couldn’t say. Attempting to find a sensible explanation would be akin to asking a magician to reveal what lay behind smoke and mirrors, and Danny knew better than to tell himself any of his own secrets. Each trick needed a unique set, and so the stage would adjust as necessary.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finding his way from this building’s backstage was simple with all the noise. Screams, cries, shouts, all conducted by the wail of an alarm. Headache-inducing, honestly. <em> Someone </em>had to bring this mess into order. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he came into the central room, he let himself pause to take in the scene. A half dozen figures scattered about, each in cheap-looking animal masks. The cliché made his lip curl. They could do better than that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Huddled in a mass by the counters were what he assumed were bystanding patrons caught up in a performance they never expected, and more clumped just past the counter. Staff, maybe? Both groups formed their own choruses of clanging sniffles and pleas as the masked individuals shouted and waved their guns about. At this rate, they’d accidentally shoot one of their own before they touched a single hostage. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And, above all, that endless scream of a klaxon. There was no rhythm in the other noise to give it any sort of tempo, and nothing shifted its single piercing note. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, none of this would do.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He raised a single hand in the air and snapped his fingers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every voice went silent. Every face turned his way. Every single person in the room locked on him in an instant. Even the stubborn alarm fell to the background.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Much, much better.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His voice filled the room. “Hello, all! I know it’s rude to interrupt a performance, but you’re all rather bad at this.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Each gun trained on him with laughable delay. The one in a tiger mask shouted, “How the hell’d one of the cops get in?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, no, this is just a costume!” He reached up to tear the badge-shaped patch free and flicked it onto the ground. There was no fighting down his grin, not that he tried. “I needed it to get into the building, you understand.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The hell are you talking about?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Brows raised, he replied, “If you can’t follow me telling you I had to come inside somehow, I’m not too sure how you expect to pull this off.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oi, cut it out!” called a rather slight individual in, ironically enough, a gorilla mask. “Just put him with the other hostages.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He couldn’t help laughing at that. “Oh, lovely suggestion, but I think you’re misunderstanding the situation here. See, you aren’t in charge anymore. I thought it would be obvious, but some confusion is natural. Let me explain!” His widest, strangest smile went on full display. “The <em> ringmaster </em>runs the show.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“G-d, shut up!” One of the others pointed their handgun towards his leg and fired in a crash of thundering cymbals. He needed to shift only the barest amount for it to fly right past and bury itself into the wall at his back, scattering chips of plaster and music in its wake. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Some of the hostages screamed and shrank back. He winked their direction and put his finger to his lips, and they went silent once more. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The one that fired jerked back in shock. “What the fuck?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Though he could see none of their faces, he could taste how unsettled they were. “You’ll have to be much quicker than that, my friend. But honestly, I don’t much feel like dancing right now. I’ll leave that honor to you all!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before any of them could protest or shout or do anything else that befitted their atrocious masks, the air itself warped. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Were this many surfaces in the room reflective when he walked in? No, of course they weren’t. Nor should they all reflect him no matter their angle. Nor should his reflection always face the six masked players in the center of his stage. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He never much cared for funhouses. Like so many other things, a modicum of control changed it all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you know where you are?” he called out over the room. “Try your very best to remember. It’s so difficult, isn’t it? Who put on the mask you wear? A friend? An enemy? Yourself? A you who isn’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two of the group tore off their masks in an instant, and he laughed. This was child’s play. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The tiger-masked one began firing at walls, windows, anything that mirrored the same face without end. They would run out of bullets before destroying them all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Who are the people next to you? Did they bring you here? Why? You don’t know them, do you?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One of the six stumbled away so hard they fell onto their back, then continued their wild attempt at an escape by crawling. Another raised their gun again and screamed, “Where the fuck are you?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right here!” He spread his arms wide. “I promise I won’t dodge this time. Give it your best shot.” Another laugh. “Ha, <em> shot! </em>That one wasn’t even scripted.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The one who shouted began firing at empty air a few meters away. They were trying their very best, he would give them that. Adorable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The lights are so bright in here, aren’t they? Were they always this color? This <em> many </em>colors? This few? Did this music sing to you when you first arrived? Have you always heard this song? Has it been following you your whole life?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One masked figure clutched their hands to their ears and crumpled in some attempt to block out notes that didn’t exist, unless they did. Maybe they lived in the space between true and false, only there for those who saw past a curtain he drew back with his words. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stepped away from the wall to walk at a slow pace through the chaos. The one crawling managed to reach the front door and pounded their fists against it. In a pitch just for them, he called, “There’s no exit, is there? There’s only this room. Try again. You’ll make it out someday, somewhen, on the hour the music stops.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two of the masked remained close together. Actual friends among the group, perhaps, or just those able to hold onto a bit more clarity. With an unmarred smile, he announced, “Lovely to see how a bond can stand even in this, unless… <em> do </em>you know how to stand?” One shifted in place like the floor turned into the deck of a ship on restless seas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You remember it’s simple, but that can’t be right, can it? No, to stand one must have legs, and bones, and gravity. Do you have those? Do you remember whether up and down are present here? Could you differentiate them? Go on, try it! Which is which?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One began to gesture wildly and babble in another language even as they slid to the floor. He joined with ease.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “No, these words are no more yours than any language is. What order do these syllables fall? Can speech come sideways, or have you broken the angle of your words?” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The gorilla-masked one was the last on their feet, ship-swaying. He turned to them with his mouth still curled and razor-sharp.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Were you once in charge, here?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They gave a faint nod. Back. Forth. Still swaying. Still easily swayed to whatever truth he chose for them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You did this to be remembered, didn’t you? To make some name for yourself.” It was always for the spotlight, wasn’t it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another nod, and he rewarded them with a smile. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You have an audience ready and waiting, my star, just through that door. Tell them your name, give them your interview. You’ll be remembered by them all.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their drunken stumble towards the door almost made him laugh. They would leave to their immediate arrest, and none of the others were in any state to fight. One slumped against a pillar in the center of the room with endless futile clicks from the trigger of their empty gun. Another remained curled in a tight ball, wedged against one of the seats and hands locked around their head. None so much as looked in his direction, all far too occupied with whichever of his reflections they’d decided was the real.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His reflection was nowhere it shouldn’t be, of course. It had never changed. No music played. No lights shifted. No matter what these poor attempted criminals believed, no matter what they might spout to the police, the bank was only ever what it was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t anything as trite as driving them mad. No, they simply needed a bit of time to remember that their reality was not what he told them it was — and by the time they did, they’d be far from the innocents in this building. Rather tidy, in the end.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He turned and bowed to the once-hostages, who could only gape in return. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Terribly sorry for the trouble, but I hope you all enjoyed the show.” He winked. “Remember to forget that I was ever here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Back outside, there was plenty of ruckus — his star of the show must have remembered how to use a door. It was still quiet behind the building, and the officer whose jacket he borrowed remained by his car. He blinked hazily at the hoodie Danny left him with as if it might hold answers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny traded them back in an instant. “Thanks for holding that! I did have to tear the patch off yours, but it shouldn’t be too hard to fix.” When the man turned that hazy stare towards him without a word, Danny could only pat him on the shoulder and move on. The blur would fade. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was once again skirting the perimeter to return to the Institute when a harsh grip closed around his shoulder and dragged him to the side. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim’s face was dark. Thunderous. “What the hell is wrong with you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You tell me you’re going to be back in a minute after a hell of a flashback, and then you charge off to—” He gestured wildly at the scene at his back when anger choked off the words. “To play bloody <em> superhero!”  </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s not— I helped, Tim, they had hostages and—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, you thought just charging in was a good idea?! I mean, <em> Jesus, </em> Danny!” Tim pushed a few strands of hair out of his face from a half-fallen bun. “You’re not a g-ddamn comic book character, and all the shit that happened to you isn’t your <em> origin story, </em> it’s the reason you should probably be in <em> therapy!” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, fuck off with that!” Danny drew up where he stood — Tim might be used to being one of the tallest in a given room, but Danny had him beat. “Are you gonna find me that magic therapist?! Besides, you’re the one who had some bullshit revenge quest on the back burner for years, and—”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And <em> I </em>was the only one that put in danger! How did you know that if you went in and pulled this, they wouldn’t just start shooting the other people in there?!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t have let them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And what the hell do you think you could have done about it?” Tim snapped. “It’d take one mistake. <em> One.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It didn’t <em>happen! </em>No one died, Tim!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim ran a hand over his face in complete, furious disbelief. “You know our cop friend, Daisy? I have no idea what the hell you did in there, but I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t natural. She used to be part of a group that <em>takes care </em>of people who do supernatural shit that’re deemed too dangerous to live.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His face went tight and each word bared his teeth. “They drag those people into the woods for <em> g-ddamn executions.</em> If I didn’t realize it was <em> you </em> when the feed from the cameras popped up on the news, they might have gone for that before I even got here. I would <em> never </em>know what happened to you.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fury’s fire receded by the merest bit to show the terror behind it, and Danny’s justifications drained away to leave him feeling only sick. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I— I’m sorry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim grabbed him by the upper arms, his eyes still hard as steel. “I need you to <em> think </em> before you act,” he ordered with a light shake. “This isn’t just— just you getting knocked to the pavement because you threw a stupid punch, Danny. Some people want to kill you. <em> Don’t </em>make it easy for them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Tim released him once more, Danny noticed a couple of the cops gesturing his way — one being the man whose jacket he took. Whoops. Another, one with plenty of seniority if the way she carried herself was anything to go by, shook her head emphatically.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Should we run?” It was only half a joke.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I told them you’re with the Institute, and you were following up on something tied back to it.” Tim turned that way to begin the walk back. “Means anything supernatural that pops up should get written off, if we’re lucky.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, see? I knew it’d be fine,” Danny said with a weak attempt at cheer as he followed. “I’ve got my big brother here to save me, right?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tim didn’t look at him. “I think at this point we’ve well proven I can’t save you every time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was nothing Danny could say to that, not when the very air around Tim felt solid with disappointment. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So much for unshaken patience, then. Finding its edge was nowhere near as satisfying as he’d told himself it would be. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Still, even with the consequences, the tricks inside that bank <em> did </em>satisfy in a strange way. When was the last time he’d been able to really indulge like that? He had no one to talk circles around in the Institute. Everyone there was either far too easy a target or would retaliate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There were a handful he wouldn’t <em> want </em>to twist up in the falsehoods of their reality. Tim, of course. Martin. Jon. Maybe Melanie. Basira, though he still wasn’t sure if that was because of her or her guard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the end, it amounted to the same lack of a way to hold onto abilities he once lived and breathed by.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny had missed performing. It didn’t feel like something he should voice.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: implied physical abuse (specifically lashes), a panic attack + flashback with the usual non-graphic level of severity, brief dissociation</p>
<p><b>tim:</b> danny just fucking vanished did not tell me where he was going did not even tell me he was leaving im haha uh Losing It<br/><b>martin, looking at where the news is playing on a nearby tv:</b> i might. have an idea of where he is. but i do not think you’ll love it</p>
<p>"ren that exam thing danny pulled seems a little far fetched" tell that to my art history professor from my second year of college bc I Pulled That Shit</p>
<p>in the wings: plans made in quiet, plans enacted in noise</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. WHEEL OF FORTUNE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On humanity, homecoming, and a trade's completion.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ch8 got SO much art gang lets GO<br/>1. [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368722746261504/cosmic-nopedog-this-is-extremely-rough-but-i">this whole-ass ANIMATIC for the very beginning of the bank scene</a>]<br/>2. [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368817780752384/cosmic-nopedog-titanfalling-its-ass-oclock-and">and another from them with this fuckin CUTE danny!</a>]<br/>3. [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368737723023360/emberglowfox-very-rough-experimental-thing-bc-i">another awesome one from sparks that NAILS the unreality vibes</a>]<br/>4. [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648368761783631872/transmikecrew-the-lights-are-so-bright-in">a lovely piece with some very nice colors op did on a TRACKPAD? witchcraft</a>]<br/>yknow what's fun? posting chapters and knowing you'll all be out for my blood :)</p><p>suggested listening: demons (philosophical sessions) by jacob lee</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’re rather similar, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>A strange way to begin a conversation, though it wasn’t as if Danny could claim to be well-practiced with the average. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re just going to hop right into all that, then? No fun trip stories? No exciting details of your world travel?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon blinked at him, then cleared his throat. “While I was in America, I got kidnapped again.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Is that the fun trip story?” </p><p> </p><p>“The <em> irritating </em>trip story, more like.” Though Jon’s discomfort was clear, it was far more muted than one might expect. Danny supposed that, after all the circus’s theatrics, constant tension, and imminent threat of being skinned at any time, a more traditional kidnapping would seem lackluster. “But, no. My point is, it was because of that I met someone who helped me put a few pieces together.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny tilted his head. “What pieces?”</p><p> </p><p>“How much do you know about the dread powers? They’re also called Smirke’s fourteen, though I doubt Nikola would have used the—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Tim mentioned that whole concept to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Jon’s brows drew in. “Tim? When?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny gave a loose shrug. “Time is hard. A week ago, maybe?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim— Tim already <em> knew </em>about them?”</p><p> </p><p>Before Danny could say a word, Jon grabbed his cane and pushed himself up out of his chair, then opened the office door to call, “Tim!” No response.<em> "Tim!" </em>The increased volume plus a wave of Jon's hand was enough, and Tim looked up. Jon continued, “You knew about Smirke’s taxonomy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“All fourteen?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the whole thing, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>A second of flat, silent disbelief, then, <em> “How?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“When you research a guy long enough, you find things that aren’t on Wikipedia,” Tim remarked as he went back to his laptop. </p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was a note of petulance to Jon’s voice, and Danny struggled to suppress laughter. He sounded like Tim hadn’t told him his favorite ice cream was on sale, not that Tim had some insight into the hypothetical structure of beings of fear outside reality. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh, because I thought he was full of shit,” Tim answered easily.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well, when all this started and it became clear he might have been onto something,” Jon continued. “Why not then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I thought <em> you </em>were full of shit.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “...Thought, </em>past?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t push it.”</p><p> </p><p>Another beat. “It would have been nice to not have to go all the way to America to know about that side of things.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim stared into the middle distance as if he needed a moment to process Jon’s words, then turned with an incredulous look. “Are you <em> really </em> sure you want to talk about things that would’ve been nice to know? I’m gonna give you a second to decide if <em> that’s </em>the hill you want to die on.”</p><p> </p><p>There was silence as Jon opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. He took a deep breath, then said, “I’m not in the mood for a row, Tim, but if you happen to remember anything else… <em> pertinent, </em>I would appreciate it if you told me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure, boss.” Danny was certain that, if Tim tried to fit any more scorn into two words, he’d pull a muscle. </p><p> </p><p>Jon made as if to reply, but then blinked and glanced back over his shoulder. It wouldn’t surprise Danny if Jon had forgotten he was there at all. </p><p> </p><p>Once Jon shut the door and returned to his seat, Danny made a stab at sating the curiosity that itched without end in the back of his head.</p><p> </p><p>“What <em> happened </em>between you guys?”</p><p> </p><p>The aircon’s soft whirr filled their silence as Jon stared at his laced hands without speaking for a long moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Bridges were burned, and I don’t know how to rebuild them.” He looked up at Danny with a humorless smile. “You’re his brother. I don’t suppose you have some advice?”</p><p> </p><p>An Archivist who didn’t <em> know. </em>Interesting.</p><p> </p><p>“...Considering I’m in a bit of hot water with him myself, not at the moment.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” Relief surged across Jon’s face as he snatched the opening for a subject change. “While I was gone, I learned that reading statements has become a— a physical dependence. For me.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked deeply uncomfortable. Danny concurred.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“And Martin told me about your… escapade.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon fiddled with a few papers on his desk. “The powers — the Eye, the Stranger, the Web, et cetera — have ties to particular humans they choose. Avatars.” He sent Danny a meaningful look, expectant, but Danny merely gestured for him to continue.</p><p> </p><p>“I myself am an avatar. For the Eye. ...Obviously.” He cleared his throat again. “Part of that is the consumption of statements by way of reading and recording, but it would make sense that each power requires different things when tied to an individual.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you think I’m one of these avatars.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s brows rose. “No idea. I don’t really think about it.” </p><p> </p><p>“You may want to begin, then. Part of being an avatar means…” Jon trailed off, and Danny could feel how discomfited he was from the other side of the desk. “...Losing your humanity, over time. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>For how heavy Jon’s tone was, one might think he was delivering news of some great horror or sorrow, not <em> this.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Danny said again with a shrug.</p><p> </p><p>Jon startled like Danny had smacked him between the eyes. “Aren’t you… upset? Or afraid? Of how you might change, I mean. Of what you’re becoming.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not at all?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not at all.” Danny crossed one ankle over the opposite knee as he thought. “I’m not <em> becoming </em>anything. Whatever it is, I already became it. Maybe that’s good, maybe it’s not, but it doesn’t matter at this point. If I didn’t do it, I’d be dead. The price was worth it.”</p><p> </p><p>Still, Jon looked bewildered. “And you— you don’t worry about what losing your humanity might mean, or—”</p><p> </p><p>Danny couldn’t help but laugh. “You think while I was part of the Circus I fretted about the meaning of being human or something? After that long around all the things there, playing pretend that I was one of them, you think I’d be anything but glad once it wasn’t quite as much pretend as before?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s… fair, yes,” Jon conceded.</p><p> </p><p>“To be honest, I already knew — not about the avatar thing, but that I’m less human.”</p><p> </p><p>“How so?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s kind of obvious. Have you met a human whose skin cracks? Or with blood the same color as mine? I mean, <em> maybe </em>those don’t mean anything, since skin or blood disorders might give someone similar things without being supernatural. It’s not like I know much about all that.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny studied the scars across his palms as he explained, then met Jon’s eyes. “The thing is, I don’t care either way. It doesn’t <em> matter.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“How could it possibly not matter to you?” If Jon was bewildered before, now he looked at Danny as if he were no longer speaking the same language.</p><p> </p><p>“What does it change?” Danny answered. “I’m still Danny Stoker. Tim’s still my brother, my favorite color’s still orange, I still like pineapple on pizza. If staying alive to keep all that means I have to be a bit more monster than human, what do I care?” </p><p> </p><p>When Jon could only stare, Danny uncrossed his legs to lean forward with elbows on his knees and a small, knowing smile.</p><p> </p><p>“So, next time you get in a conniption about whether you’re still human, just remember: whatever you are now, it beats being dead.” </p><p> </p><p>“...I suppose you’re right.”</p><p> </p><p>“Considering I’ve got a bit more experience than you there, I suppose so.” He sat back again. “Was that all?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon held the same strange look even as he nodded. “Yes, that was all. We’ll be leaving for Great Yarmouth tomorrow morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Right. He was going back. Not the time to think about that.</p><p> </p><p>Danny stood and crossed to the office door, then paused. “So if we’re both avatars for these things, is that what Helen is, too? For the…” He caught himself before he could snap as he tried to remember. “The Spiral, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s part of the Spiral, yes.” Jon rolled a pen between his fingers and thumb, eyes fixed on the swirling wood grain of the desk. “Helen Richardson was a victim of one of the Spiral’s manifestations, the Distortion. The Distortion previously took the form of a man who used to work at the Institute, and now it takes hers.”</p><p> </p><p>“So… not an avatar, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. The Distortion captured and consumed her, and though it changed to match her appearance and some degree of her personality, it’s still a<em> manifestation, </em> not an <em> avatar.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny mulled over that a moment, then nodded. “Got it. See you tomorrow, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Even as Danny returned to the desk he’d claimed and assured Tim that, no, the spooky scary Archivist didn’t try to eat his trauma, still those words sat indelible in the back of his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Captured. Consumed. Changed.</p><p> </p><p>Danny had no doubt that he was something beyond human. He wasn’t sure he could claim to be an avatar, either.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fire was not a thing that cut. He found comfort in the nonsense of it all even as he bled.</p><p> </p><p>Razors did not burn. The swathes of cracked, crumpled, purple-red skin claimed otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>How could he do anything but dance to the shattersong they created, when each correct step earned him a soothing brush of cold? He danced even as blades made a home of his flesh. If he could see her blue, he could endure anything. </p><p> </p><p>As if that thought was the magic word, she vanished. He was alone.</p><p> </p><p>Burn and cut and agony came without end, and though he danced as he must they did not abate. Where was she? He was sorry, he was, more than he could ever put into words. Maybe this would be enough to prove that. Maybe she would come back. </p><p> </p><p>So, he danced. He danced and he hurt for what felt like eons. </p><p> </p><p>Heat closed around his wrists like brands. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, but his failure to comprehend what mistakes he made never meant a thing to those who delivered the punishments. Enough repetition would show him the pattern.</p><p> </p><p>He collapsed. Limp. If whatever came next meant he must stand, they wouldn’t hesitate to pull him up again. He was so tired.</p><p> </p><p>The brands lifted, and as soon as he was free his arms snapped in close to his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Someone was speaking. Repeating something. Heat came against his shoulder this time, and he scrambled back. Did he shout? Hard to say. Didn’t matter, unless it did. Unless he was meant to be silent. Unless.</p><p> </p><p>“—home,” the voice said.</p><p> </p><p>Yes. He knew he was home.</p><p> </p><p>“—with me—”</p><p> </p><p>Of course. Blades and brands and ringmasters needed someone to wield them.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny—”</p><p> </p><p>Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.</p><p> </p><p>Further away. Wall at his back. Cornered. Trapped.</p><p> </p><p>Captured. Consumed. Changed. Different now. Not D— No. Not that. Not him.</p><p> </p><p>Weight settled around him. Soft. Heavy. Warm, not burning branding heat.</p><p> </p><p>There he sat, curled and shivering under the shelter of fabric as if it could protect him. </p><p> </p><p>When he was able to open his eyes without fear of blindness by way of infinite color, it was to see a dark, quiet room. Blue walls. Soft light spilled in from the hall past the open door. A thick duvet draped over where his legs were pulled to his chest and wrapped to tuck around his shoulders. The cloth remained twisted in his white-knuckled grip.</p><p> </p><p>He looked to the side out of the corner of one eye. His brother sat on the floor next to him with his head tipped back to rest against the wall, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging between. </p><p> </p><p>“You know where you are?” His brother — Tim, yes — asked. His voice was low. Rough.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Nonverbal?’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing you need to apologize for. Sorry I used your name. I wasn’t thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>His name. Danny. Right. Still needed to apologize. “Sorry I woke you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim looked over to him with a thin smile. “I was already up.” Obviously, now that Danny thought about it. He wouldn't have his hearing aids in if he woke so abruptly. After a pause, Tim continued, “Touch okay now, or no?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny held out his arm, and was met with only air as Tim hesitated to reach back.</p><p> </p><p>“Will it help, or is it just because you feel like you’re supposed to?”</p><p> </p><p>After letting himself consider, he murmured, “S’fine now. I know it’s you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded and took hold of Danny’s wrist. Part of Danny felt oddly guilty for thinking the very same touch was something that might hurt him before, but he knew Tim would never expect him to apologize for that. </p><p> </p><p>They sat together in exhausted silence, and when Tim broke it to ask if Danny was going to try to go back to sleep, Danny could only let out a short, breathless huff. Almost a laugh. Yes, he was exhausted. Sleep wouldn't help. From the bags under his eyes to the fact that he was awake at all, Danny knew Tim understood.</p><p> </p><p>By mutual, unspoken agreement, they drifted back to the living room, though Danny bypassed it to continue towards the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>“You want me to make it?” Tim asked from his place on the couch. They both knew Danny was going for the hot chocolate. His nightmares weren’t frequent enough that he had an exact routine just yet, but when they came they were vivid, long, and always necessitated at least an hour to come down from.</p><p> </p><p>“I got it.” </p><p> </p><p>Hot chocolate was one of the only things that helped every time. Just like his panic response of curling up and hiding, it made him feel strangely like a kid. If Tim thought the same thing, that Danny was being childish, he never showed it.</p><p> </p><p>4:28 AM, according to the clock on the microwave. No telling how long they sat on the floor in Danny’s room. That usual hour may have passed already. Were it a regular nightmare on a regular night, he might’ve felt fine by this point. Knowing this was a matinee performance for what was to come later the very same day threw a wrench in the works.</p><p> </p><p>Stage fright. It was almost funny. </p><p> </p><p>When Danny returned to the living room with two mugs in hand and the duvet around his shoulders, he joined Tim on the couch as Tim read from a small stack of papers. He looked up as Danny sat to accept a mug, then returned to the page. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t ask if Danny wanted to talk about the nightmare. Danny never did. Tonight was no different. </p><p> </p><p>By the time his glass was half-empty, he felt a little closer to himself — close enough to attempt conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“What’re you reading?” His voice came as a croak, but Tim was kind enough to not point it out.</p><p> </p><p>“Just some old statements. I was hoping they might have something useful, but no dice so far.” </p><p> </p><p>“For tomorrow? Or today, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim shook his head. “Trying to plan ahead.”</p><p> </p><p>“And does…” Danny leaned over to catch a glimpse of the label. “...Antonio Blake have anything helpful?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not a damn thing.” Tim tossed the page back into a slim folder, then pulled out another. “The guy just <em> slept.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“...Yeah, what a bastard. Sleeping and everything.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim waved a dismissive hand, which Danny took to mean that he had no intention of elaborating. That was fine. The immediate future loomed far too much in Danny’s thoughts for him to worry about whatever came after. </p><p> </p><p><em> If </em>anything came after. This could be it. </p><p> </p><p>He was going back home, and he had no idea if he would leave again. </p><p> </p><p>Part of him was afraid, of course he was, but he couldn’t deny strange longing. He missed being a part of a group, all traveling together and putting their all into performances as one unit. He missed the rush that came with a seamless show. He missed having a purpose.</p><p> </p><p>He missed the contortionist so much it burned. Another thing he couldn’t voice. Tim had made it clear he didn’t understand. Part of Danny wished he could have just one chance to <em> truly </em>introduce them, sometime when there was no slow-building panic in his throat and people at his back he was meant to lead out. Sometime when there were no lies and secret plans. When Tim wasn’t so angry and she wasn’t so hurt.</p><p> </p><p>Wishful thinking, of course. It could never happen. </p><p> </p><p>Unless. </p><p> </p><p>Tim was engrossed in his statement, but Danny couldn’t help interrupting. This was important. He needed to say it. Some attempt at reassurance, for whatever nerves Tim had. </p><p> </p><p>“I think…” Still hoarse. He took another long drink, and spared a moment to lament that he skipped the Bailey’s. It hadn’t even occurred to him while making it. “I think if everything goes— goes wrong, tomorrow. And we get stuck there. I think I could convince Nikola to keep us both around. Matching set, and all.” </p><p> </p><p>The words came choppy and stilted, but he needed to get them out before they tangled together in his lungs and kept him from giving any of this. Some kind of hope for options, should the worst come. “I’d try for everyone, but I— I don’t know. But <em> we'd </em>still be alive. I could do it. So don’t… don’t worry.”</p><p> </p><p>He glanced over at last to see Tim looking straight ahead, the statement in his hand forgotten. In profile like this, Danny couldn’t read his face. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny.” His voice was no easier to pull emotion from. “If we get captured like that, I’d rather you just kill me.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? Why would— <em> What?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim went back to the page as if the words of Nathanial Thorp might hold answers. “You should try and get some sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Sure.” He didn’t move from where he sat, and he knew Tim didn’t expect him to. There would be no more sleep for either of them tonight. </p><p> </p><p>Dread made no sense with a homecoming. It was par for the course when walking back into imprisonment. </p><p> </p><p>Danny sat on the couch as the earliest minutes of the morning crept by, Tim’s hand warm and steady against his wrist, and wondered if by now he was meant to know which this was.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sunrise made a mockery of their routine. </p><p> </p><p>No matter how much cream Danny added to his coffee, he could taste only sawdust and clove. He drained the cup anyway. Tim made breakfast, but it was clear neither of them had an appetite, and most of it ended up in the bin.</p><p> </p><p>Neither spoke more than a dozen words. What could they say that hadn’t already been said?</p><p> </p><p>Once Danny was dressed, he paused before leaving his room and opened the closet door. His performance jacket hung there, accompanied only by the hoodie Martin got him. Still muted. Still dull. Still never meant for the dim lights of this place.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled on the hoodie, then scanned the shelf at the closet’s top. Next to a couple small storage bins lay an unused backpack. Perfect.</p><p> </p><p>Backpack in hand, his fingers ran down the jacket’s sleeve — just as soft as he remembered. </p><p> </p><p>He hesitated. No telling why. It was just sensible, right? Basic preparedness.</p><p> </p><p>Carefully, carefully, he took the jacket off its hanger, folded it, and tucked it in the backpack, then shrugged the straps on. It felt heavier than it had any right to with only fabric inside, but its weight was as much a comfort as the duvet. Steadying. </p><p> </p><p>He needed to be ready. Just in case.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t a face Danny could say he <em> wanted </em>to see first when they got to the Institute, but were he asked to make a list, Elias would without a doubt be at the bottom.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, Tim, Danny,” Elias greeted with a pleasant smile as they came into the archives. “Kind of you to join us.”</p><p> </p><p>“Heaven forbid we miss your touching send-off,” Tim replied. At his side, Danny stayed quiet. </p><p> </p><p>“I only wanted to wish you luck on your mission. Walking back into the lion’s jaws is quite a risk.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’d be lost without you.” Danny wondered how many times Tim had pointedly turned off his hearing aids while Elias spoke.</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring Tim, Elias turned to Jon. “Did you find what we discussed?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s lips pursed, but he nodded. “No thanks to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t do everything for you, Jon,” Elias said as his smile turned chastising. </p><p> </p><p>He looked them all over once more and clasped his hands behind his back. “I must be going, but I’m sure I’ll see you all soon. Best of luck.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim rolled his eyes and muttered, “Prick,” under his breath as Elias left, then turned to Jon. “What was that he asked you about?”</p><p> </p><p>“A sigil,” Jon explained as he held up a folded bit of paper. “Elias told me it would be useful, but when it came to tracking the thing down, he was no help. Apparently if I affix it to whatever door we use, it’ll act like a sort of beacon. Even if everything else is… <em> weird, </em>I should be able to See it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only you, though?” Danny asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Sending you into the Unknowing alone was always a temporary plan, so we’ll adjust. It’s more than what we had to start.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t like it, but Jon was right. Rather than argue, he looked over the group, and his brow furrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Daisy?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira spoke up from where she leaned against one of the desks. “Elias sent her on a hunt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought she just went to get the car.” Martin continued packing a few bottles of water into his bag, and Basira’s face soured.</p><p> </p><p>“She was going to, but she texted me that Elias stopped her before he came in and gave her a job. It’s not like she can argue.”</p><p> </p><p>Though it made no dent in how much he disliked her, Danny couldn’t deny a brief swell of sympathy. “Should we postpone, then?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira shook her head. “Said not to. We don’t know how much time we have for any of this. If we wait, we might miss our chance. I’d ask Melanie to come instead, but if we need any information from around here it’s better to have her ready for that.”</p><p> </p><p>It all made sense, but Danny still didn’t love being down an ally. Best to use all their resources. </p><p> </p><p>“Be right back.” He crossed towards the trapdoor, and only turned back when Tim called his name.</p><p> </p><p>“The hell are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Helen helped us get out the first time. May as well ask if she’d be willing to help again.”</p><p> </p><p>“The Distortion doesn’t <em> help </em>anyone,” Jon warned. “It works for its own ends.” </p><p> </p><p>“And without it, we’d all be dead or <em> worse,” </em> retorted Danny. “You’re acting like I’m going to stick my hand in a bear trap or something. I’m just going to nicely ask if the bear trap wouldn’t mind <em> giving </em>us a hand.” He shot a smile at the four others, each staring with varying levels of concern. “Won’t be long!”</p><p> </p><p>Before any of them could protest further, he dropped down into the tunnels below.</p><p> </p><p>The walls were still that same dull grey stone, though he was certain this stretch used to be paved cobblestone, not smooth, flat blocks. Good. Things being what they shouldn’t would make this even easier.</p><p> </p><p>Danny grabbed the torch left by the trapdoor and flipped it on. Its light faded far more quickly than one would expect, but that was no matter. He took a breath and, with eyes narrowed, pulled at the seams of the <em> everything </em>around him. </p><p> </p><p>The light bounced exactly as it shouldn’t, angling in and on and around stone. White light was made of all other colors, so refracting it into itself and sending out prismatic flashes was a simple, dizzying matter.</p><p> </p><p>Just as he began to speculate as to whether he could warp the texture of the stone around him, a familiar creak echoed at his back.</p><p> </p><p>“If you want to play, all you have to do is ask.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny turned to face Helen. The torchlight looked just as it should despite how it danced against the stone mere moments ago — assuming it had ever changed at all. “I had to knock first, didn’t I? See if you were home.”</p><p> </p><p>When she grinned, all the colors that didn’t exist reflected in her teeth. “I certainly am. Did you want to come in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not right now.” He didn’t get why the others were so afraid of the Distortion. All it took was rejecting any offer to come in, and keeping a level head should any twisting of threats or reality come calling. People got far too caught up in whether the things around them made sense. Much easier to realize how little it mattered.</p><p> </p><p>“The others and I are going back to the wax museum today.” It was difficult to keep his light tone at the thought, but he managed.</p><p> </p><p>“Does the ringmaster miss his stage?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’d miss your corridors if you were separated.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re one and the same.” Her form flickered, and for a brief second she appeared just as warped and mirrored as the hall at her back. “The corridors are as much me as me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly,” Danny agreed. “But we’re not going back to stay.” He hoped. “And since you helped us get out last time, I thought I’d ask if you might help again. Just if we need it.”</p><p> </p><p>Her mouth curled. “Now, why would I do that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you don’t want the Circus to win.” She wouldn’t help out of plain concern, Danny knew. It wasn’t as if he took offense. Were it him, he’d also need a damn good reason to put himself in danger to help a group he barely knew. </p><p> </p><p>Helen’s head turned, and turned, and turned. A particularly headache-inducing shift flipped the direction it was angled back and forth a few times. “I don’t want the Eye to win, either.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny laughed. “You think I do?” He met where he assumed her eyes were past glasses that rippled with fallacy. “We’ll stop this apocalypse, then we deal with whatever comes next.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you don’t believe it can be stopped, do you? Not really.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hope’s not a prerequisite for trying,” Danny answered after a pause. “I don’t know if it can be, but I’ve been wrong before. Never thought I’d leave the troupe, either.”</p><p> </p><p>“And how glad are you to be wrong about that?” Helen’s arms coiled together until they approximated a crossed position. </p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Danny ran a hand through his hair. “It means I can spend more time with my brother, at least. Whether the world ends or it doesn’t, I’ve got that.” </p><p> </p><p>Helen reached out to pinch his cheek and coo, “Very touching.” Her fingers burned with electrical static.</p><p> </p><p>With a loose, casual motion, Danny batted her hand away. He wasn’t going to let her rile him up. “I’m not asking you to lead the charge or anything. Just keep a door out.” </p><p> </p><p>At his bastardized idiom, Helen let out a spinning nosebleed laugh. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Helen. Hopefully I won’t see you there, yeah?” With any luck, they wouldn’t need her escape route.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, ringmaster. Tell all your old friends hello for me!” </p><p> </p><p>Again, he waved her off with a crooked smile. Rather than bother with the rickety ladder leading out the trapdoor, he turned off the torch and grabbed the side of the door’s opening with a short jump, then pulled himself up.</p><p> </p><p>He caught only the tail end of Tim’s voice, too low and fast for him to make out any words. Basira nodded along, but Jon’s face was pinched, and Martin radiated uncertainty. </p><p> </p><p>Once Danny got to his feet, Tim turned to face him with a charitable attempt at looking unruffled.</p><p> </p><p>“How’d it go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine. She said she’ll watch out in case we need an emergency exit,” Danny replied with brows up, eyes flicking across the group. “Am I… interrupting something?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. We should head out.” </p><p> </p><p>Basira nodded again and began to collect her things, and after a moment of fiddling with the bit of paper in his hands, Jon went off to his own desk. Danny merely shifted the straps of his backpack to resettle them on his shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>With ill-disguised concern, Martin joined him at the side of the room. “How’re you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny studied him. “Tim told you I had a bad night, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t have to,” Martin said. “Neither of you look like you’ve slept, and considering where we’re going…” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine, Martin.” Danny’s arms crossed. “Just in and out, right? I’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>In and out. Sure. As if it could ever be so smooth. </p><p> </p><p>“You know you don’t <em> have </em> to come with us, right?” </p><p> </p><p>Danny shot him a dubious look. “And let you all go there alone? Make you figure it out by yourselves, with no help in understanding anything that goes on? You’re joking.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just mean if you think it would be too much. No one would blame you for that.” It was clear Martin meant to give him some kind of option, but him saying the option existed didn’t make it true. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re going in during a practice, so things offstage should keep in the lines, but if they don’t? You’ll never be able to figure out what’s happening on your own.”</p><p> </p><p>“You did,” Martin replied, then immediately winced with regret.</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t flinch. “Yeah, and look how that turned out.”</p><p> </p><p>Their stilted conversation ground to a halt at Basira’s voice. “C’mon, we’re losing daylight.” </p><p> </p><p>As usual, Tim offered to drive. Jon took the passenger seat to accommodate both his stiff joints and his cane. Danny made his own offer to sit in the very back row. Yes, he was the tallest there, but he was also the most flexible. If anyone could manage to be something in the neighborhood of comfortable despite how cramped it was, it’d be him.</p><p> </p><p>Danny stared out the window with his backpack held in his lap as they passed through the bustling streets of London and beyond. Though his memories were a fractured mess, he couldn’t stop himself from noting every change he recognized.</p><p> </p><p>The world never stopped turning. It wasn’t as if four years was any staggering amount of time, but still he could only feel distinctly othered. It didn’t feel much like <em> his, </em>anymore. </p><p> </p><p>No, <em> his </em>was their destination. He’d be home soon. </p><p> </p><p>His mouth still tasted like sawdust and clove.</p><p> </p><p>Tim glanced up to check on him in the rearview mirror plenty, Danny knew, but he didn’t bother with conversation. If the others talked, Danny didn’t know it. Hopefully none of them tried to talk to him. </p><p> </p><p>Who would he see there? They could pray they’d stay undiscovered, but Danny knew wishful thinking when he heard it. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe the strongman, who showed him the best ways to keep steady when lifting a partner above his head or into throws. Maybe the twin acrobats, who gave him tips on how to keep his cool when he felt himself slipping and how to adjust without an audience’s notice. Maybe one of the stagehands, who all traded grins and claps on the shoulder with him when the troupe finished the hard work of constructing wherever they would all perform when they came somewhere new.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe the contortionist. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe Nikola.</p><p> </p><p>Three hours in the car was nothing compared to some of the trips Danny used to go on, whether with Tim or a friend or simply on his own, but now it crept by with aching delay. Anticipation crawled under his skin. </p><p> </p><p>As Tim pulled into a car park, Danny ran his hands up and down his arms in some vague attempt to rub the feeling away. Didn’t work, no surprise. </p><p> </p><p>The five of them were silent for a long moment. This whole plan was ridiculous, of course it was — they could barely even call it a plan. </p><p> </p><p>Go in, put spooky sigil on door, leave. </p><p> </p><p>Terrific. They were all dead. </p><p> </p><p>No. No, Danny put too much into survival, and he had no intention of changing that here. Tim wouldn’t die, either. He could try for Basira and Martin, but that’d be a tall order. Nikola wanted the Archivist’s skin too much for that to ever succeed. </p><p> </p><p>No matter what, Danny was damn sure he would live. That was how it worked. Things happened and he survived. He had no doubt Tim could survive as much as him, considering how much more he had to survive than Danny when they were younger. They were tough. They’d be fine.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If we get captured like that, I’d rather you just kill me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim had said it quietly. Not like a secret. Like a truth so obvious and reasonable it needed no ceremony. The world was round. Water was wet. Tim would rather be dead than a prisoner.</p><p> </p><p>And that was… That was a problem for later. They just needed to make it through the day, then he and Tim could talk about whatever the hell was up there. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny?” </p><p> </p><p>Danny blinked to see Martin watching him with concern. The others were already outside the car. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. Zoned out.” He clambered out from the back, tugging the backpack on as he went. </p><p> </p><p>They clustered by the car for a moment, until Basira rocked back on her heels with her arms folded. “So. Plan for when we get in—”</p><p> </p><p>“I need to go in first,” Danny interrupted.</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t hesitate. “Like hell.”</p><p> </p><p>“We need to be sure they’re in the middle of practice. I can make guesses about when that’d happen all day, but time wasn’t really a <em> thing </em>there. Clearly there’s not a show, or I’d feel it from here, but we need to know that they’re distracted.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go first, then,” Tim argued. Danny shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“It has to be me, unless one of you knows the best way to get from the back to the stage without being seen, and all the places you can hide if you need to.” He looked them over. “No one?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira nodded once. “You go in and check. <em> Just </em>check. Then you come let us know. We’ll stick close to whatever back door you use.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, can I just take that sigil thing myself?” Make it simple, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers drumming on the grip of his cane, Jon said, “I’m fairly sure it has to be someone of the Eye, and even if not, you’re— you’re too much of the Stranger. It’d interfere, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin’s brows drew in. “So what are <em> we </em>doing, then? If it’s just Danny who’s checking it’s safe and Jon who’s taking care of the whole mark… thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Watching their backs,” Basira explained. “And getting a feel for the place in general. If this is where the whole thing is happening, the more we know, the better.” She waited, and when no more questions came, gestured for Danny to lead the way. </p><p> </p><p>They made their way down a narrow alley lined with litter and scattered bins. The midday sun hung above, so Danny didn’t bother with stealth. It wasn’t like the troupe had guards on patrol. Besides, even though he could move damn near silently, he didn’t think the others could claim as much. </p><p> </p><p>Tucked between another bin and a veritable heap of cigarette butts was the door they needed. Before Danny could take the handle, a grip on his arm halted him.</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s face was solid, almost stern. “In and out. That’s it. You’re just checking that they’re practicing and coming back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, <em> mum. </em>How long before you come in guns-blazing this time?” </p><p> </p><p>With the back of one hand, Tim knocked against his shoulder. “You get three minutes this time for being a dick.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed the door handle again, and was again interrupted when Martin whispered from the back of their little line.</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t it locked?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny turned to look at him. “Why would we lock it? Surprise guests were always welcome. Fear is fear, from an audience or from someone alone.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, he left them to their own fear of whatever unknowns may lie past the door as he slipped inside. </p><p> </p><p>Everything was just as vibrant he remembered, and he froze as his breath caught in his throat. The way it all moved in discordant harmony settled something in him. He swore he could almost feel the beat of his heart fall into the tempo that thrummed through this place. </p><p> </p><p>But no. No, Tim and the others were waiting for him to return. Like at the very beginning, he knew without a shadow of doubt that if he didn’t go to Tim, Tim would come to find him. Unacceptable. </p><p> </p><p>He would complete the task he was given, and things would be okay. </p><p> </p><p>With how empty the backstage was, he barely had cause to go to the stage itself to ensure they were mid-practice, but best to check. The stage held even more brightlight colorspin that twined in an unmatched siren call, and resisting the pull to <em> stay </em> and <em> listen </em> and <em> join </em>made him shudder down to his bones.  </p><p> </p><p>He needed to go. Before his resistance broke. Before he forgot what waited for him outside.</p><p> </p><p>Returning to the proper door was more difficult than he anticipated. He wished it was simply because he was lost, not because he had to convince himself to take each and every step. </p><p> </p><p>The sunlight blinded him when he returned outside, yet Danny could only see it as dull. </p><p> </p><p>Tim looked him over from where he’d clearly been pacing. “You okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Fine. They’re practicing. Based on where they were in the song, we should have enough time. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>One by one, they filed in. Danny did what he could to keep things a little bit closer to a reality the others could parse, but too much would call attention. It’d have to be enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we using this same door?” Martin asked in a murmur. </p><p> </p><p>Danny nodded. “It’s the closest one to them.” </p><p> </p><p>“To— Oh.” Martin paled as his eyes caught on a cluster of figures a half-dozen meters away. Next to him, Tim cursed under his breath. </p><p> </p><p>“We really can’t get them <em> now? </em> I mean, we’re <em> right here.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Would you scream if you woke up standing in a group of other comatose people, knowing full well how much the folks here want to skin you?” Danny made no effort to soften his blunt tone. “Because I did. We wake one, we’re all caught.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim accepted that with gritted teeth. “Fine. Jon, do whatever weird shit you’ve gotta do so we can get the hell out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Right, yes, let me just…” Jon patted at his pockets, then pulled out the paper. Danny wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A list of steps for some kind of spell? A trinket folded inside? </p><p> </p><p>The page was nothing more than a bit of scrap paper, blank bar an odd, scrawled symbol. Each line had a number and an arrow nearby, as if showing the proper way to draw it. Just looking at it made Danny’s head hurt.</p><p> </p><p>“...So, are you going to staple that to the doorframe or something?” Basira’s focus remained directed straight ahead to keep watch even as she spoke.</p><p> </p><p>Jon hissed, “No, I’m not going to <em> staple </em>it!” </p><p> </p><p>“Good, we didn’t bring a stapler.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim cut in. “So what <em> are </em>you gonna do, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— Elias just— just said to affix it, so…” Jon looked closer at the paper, as if it had some sort of secret hook on it he could attach to the wood. Martin peered over his shoulder in some attempt to help. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Christ.” Tim dug out his pocketknife and held it towards Jon. “Here.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon stared at him. “I’m not writing it in <em> blood—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I damn well hope not!” Tim replied before he could finish. “But if you put aside the whole<em> blood rune </em>thing, maybe give carving a shot.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Carving. Of— of course, right.” Jon took the knife and, after a brief struggle to flip it open, began to analyze the page once more. </p><p> </p><p>Danny leaned against the wall as Jon and Martin traded mutters back and forth, discussing what part of the doorframe might hide it best. On their other side, Basira remained still, her sharp eyes sweeping back and forth in steady arcs.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t long before Tim joined him by the wall. <em> 'How’re you holding up?' </em> May as well make as little noise as possible, Danny guessed.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'I’m fine.' </em> He nudged a small rack of prop weapons with a shoe. <em> 'Just ready to get out of here.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'You and me both.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They went still again. Tim wanted to leave, Danny knew, because of what must be plenty of discomfort. He wished he felt the same.</p><p> </p><p>The weight of his backpack seemed to double with every moment they remained, like the gold and wine and song it carried couldn’t abide being forgotten. </p><p> </p><p>Was him bringing it preparedness or resignation? Was there even a difference between the two? </p><p> </p><p>When a voice came from the shadows just beyond, he knew that no amount of feigned preparation or ignorant resignation could ready him for what he’d dreaded and longed for most. </p><p> </p><p>“Ringmaster?” </p><p> </p><p>He recognized the speaker immediately, and from how Tim’s face went hard it was clear he knew just as well who it was. Like he did when Helen first came to talk, he put an arm in front of Danny and growled, “You stay the hell back.”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist didn’t look away from Danny. “What… What are you doing?” </p><p> </p><p>Danny pushed Tim’s arm down and whispered, “Just let me talk to her. Tell Jon to keep going.” Music still wound through the air from the distant stage. They had time. They could make this work. </p><p> </p><p>And, if Danny was very, very lucky, maybe she would—</p><p> </p><p>No. He couldn’t get his hopes up. They would talk, and whatever came next would come. </p><p> </p><p>No doubt Tim would rather run on stage and start shouting at the top of his lungs than let the contortionist get anywhere near Danny, but Danny gave him no chance to argue. They had to see this plan through. However much of Tim’s self-preservation instinct fled, Danny knew he cared too much about ensuring the others got out to risk arguing outside a glare. </p><p> </p><p>Fine. Danny knew Tim didn’t like her. Danny loved her. Tim would have to learn to live with it. </p><p> </p><p>He walked towards her with a caution that never used to hang between them. When she didn’t back away, the relief made him breathless. She didn’t hate him. She would let him close. Maybe now, finally, he could tell her how sorry he was.</p><p> </p><p>Far too little, far too late — no use denying that. He still had to try.</p><p> </p><p>“...Fancy seeing you here.”</p><p> </p><p>She gave only a slow, disbelieving shake of her head. “What are you <em> doing?” </em>she murmured again, and he didn’t know if it was the familiarity of her voice or the heartbreak in her eyes that made his throat go tight. </p><p> </p><p>Once he was close enough, he took her hands in his own with the most gentle touch he could manage. Again, she let him. Again, her acceptance made him dizzy.</p><p> </p><p>He let out a slow breath. “What I have to.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t <em> have </em>to do anything you don’t want to, ringmaster.” Fresh sorrow washed over her face. “Come home.”</p><p> </p><p>A whispered argument started behind him. Tim got dangerously loud as he hissed, “I’m not going to just sit here and <em> let—” </em>and Danny sent a mental thanks to Basira when a few muffled words from her quieted him again. This was delicate. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t. You know I can’t.” Whatever things he missed and longed to have again, the thought of the punishment that would come with such an absolute betrayal made his blood run cold. </p><p> </p><p>The cold of her hands in his was of a far more soothing sort. G-d, he missed this. He looked down at their laced fingers, but as he did his brows drew in.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers were hinged. How had he never noticed that before?</p><p> </p><p>No matter. He couldn’t claim to be human either, and <em> whatever </em> she was, she was still <em> her. </em>His friend, his confidant, the one who helped him most.</p><p> </p><p>He met her eyes again in time to watch them grow wet. “You <em> can. </em>Please, just… Whatever happens, I’ll help, okay? We can fix this, ringmaster. We’ll fix it, and you can come home, and everything will be okay again.”</p><p> </p><p>“I…” She was always the one who helped him make hard choices before. She talked him through things, and helped him understand the best way to respond and move forward. Maybe she was right. Maybe if he came home, they could get through whatever that meant for him together, and everything really would be okay again. </p><p> </p><p>But Tim had always helped him too. Always.</p><p> </p><p>“Come with us.” Maybe he didn’t have to choose. “Come with us, please. We can fix it somewhere else, too. Together.”</p><p> </p><p>She said nothing to his wild, ridiculous request. It was asking too much of her, he knew that. He knew, and he asked anyway. Selfish. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes closed. The expression on her face was tearing him in two; he couldn’t take it. </p><p> </p><p>“Ringmaster,” she whispered, and he opened them once more. Further parts of him ripped into halves. </p><p> </p><p>With a small, heartbroken smile, she murmured, “The show must go on, remember?” </p><p> </p><p>His breath left him in a rush. His thoughts fled to leave nothing but colorspin. There was nothing of him but the show and the press of cold lips again his own as she went on her tiptoes to kiss him.</p><p> </p><p>He was allowed only a second to melt into her touch when a hand closed around his arm and jerked him away. </p><p> </p><p>His brother’s eyes blazed. “Listen to me. She used the—”</p><p> </p><p>“What—”</p><p> </p><p>“—the <em> same g-ddamn trigger phrase—” </em></p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know what his brother was talking about. They weren’t— They weren’t supposed to be here, right? His brother wasn’t part of the troupe, and they shouldn’t— </p><p> </p><p>A small, safe hand linked with his own, grounding him, but after no more than a second his brother pulled him back even further. </p><p> </p><p>“You touch him again,” his brother snarled. “I swear to <em> Christ </em>I’ll kill you.”</p><p> </p><p>“What—” His thoughts were jagged, tangled, impossible things, and it did his speech no favors. “What the hell are you—”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist looked unruffled, but he could see deep, deep pain in her eyes. He couldn’t breathe at the sight of it. Was he breathing at all? He was so lightheaded. </p><p> </p><p>She reached up a hand as if to brush against his face, but in the distance his brother had forced between them, she met only air.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, love.” </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, too, I’m so sorry, I promise I am, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.” Her smile was soft and forgiving. “You’ll have plenty of time to prove it.” </p><p> </p><p>Before his brother could do anything beyond step forward in clear threat and open his mouth, the music still twining in the air shattered into knifeshards. </p><p> </p><p>With sudden lightcolor and spaceshift he didn’t know who was what was where. All he knew was that he did not know.</p><p> </p><p>His brother kicked the rack of prop weapons towards an approaching figure as he grabbed the— the ringmaster, the man, the <em> whoever </em>by the arm and dragged him back towards the door. </p><p> </p><p>More forms blocked their way. He could hear the Archivist shouting that he was almost finished with— with whatever they came here for. He couldn’t see the contortionist. Where was she? Was she hurt?</p><p> </p><p>Movement, shifting, a laugh that made his teeth ache. Rapid bursts of noise from where the hijabi woman stood, making her own way to the door. The man near the Archivist had grabbed some old staff from another collection of props, and despite his obvious fear he stood firm. </p><p> </p><p>Hands closed around his upper arms. Hingejoints caught against the hoodie he wore as the fingers gripped tight enough to bruise. </p><p> </p><p>“Welcome back home, ringmaster,” said a voice he recognized and could never, never, never name. “Nikola missed you plenty.” Before he could do anything but thrash, another form slammed into the one holding him and knocked them away. </p><p> </p><p>His brother’s breathing was harsh. “If I never hear the word <em> ringmaster </em>again, it’ll be too fucking soon,” he panted with some attempt at humor even as the others continued to come for them.</p><p> </p><p>His foot caught on one of the props from the rack his brother knocked over a moment ago, and though he almost slipped, he kept upright. In a single motion, he swept up a couple and tossed one his brother’s way — for himself, an old machete; his brother, an axe. Plenty sharp. No prop here was left dull.</p><p> </p><p>His brother caught it in the nick of time. As soon as his fingers made contact with the handle, another marionette figure and a mess of taxidermy that <em> might </em>have been a tiger shoved their way between. </p><p> </p><p>They needed to get out of here. Every minute they spent trying to fend off the horde was one that risked making their whole plan moot. </p><p> </p><p>The pounding in his head inched closer to crescendo, and he could hardly see through migraine blindness. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to die.</p><p> </p><p>What did he want?</p><p> </p><p>To find his brother, yes. The beings around them had split them up even more, and he could only just see the dark, tied back hair a few meters away. He needed to get to his brother, make sure nothing took him. If it did, make sure he was there to keep them both alive.</p><p> </p><p>“Done!” The Archivist’s voice snapped like a shatter in reverse, bringing all the fragmented pieces around them into sudden, painful clarity. </p><p> </p><p>The hijabi woman didn’t hesitate. <em> “Go!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>He looked around again, frantic. Where was his brother? Sickening terror coiled in his gut because he couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him, if his brother was gone it was his fault. </p><p> </p><p>“Could it be?”</p><p> </p><p>The voice made his heart freeze in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“My misbehaving ringmaster, and he brought friends! And the <em> Archivist! </em> What a <em> lovely </em>gift.” Nikola’s voice dripped with saccharine threat. “There’s still a lot we must make up for, my dear, but you’ve made a beautiful start.”</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t move. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, this one even looks like you!” </p><p> </p><p>When had his brother gotten so far from him? </p><p> </p><p>Far away. Purposefully loud. Drawing the crowd. All eyes on him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If we get captured like that, I’d rather you just kill me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He knew just where that crowd stood. He knew about the trapdoor under his brother’s feet. He knew what lay at the bottom.</p><p> </p><p>He knew he was mere steps from the rope that would release it. He knew there was a blade in his hands. He knew it would take a single swing. </p><p> </p><p>He knew he couldn’t move. Not with how his legs shook. Not with how his lungs refused to take in air. Not with her so close. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on!” The round-faced man shouted from by the door. He watched his brother swing his weapon in an attempt to shake the swarm he’d gathered to buy the others enough time to finish their job. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t fucking <em> move. </em></p><p> </p><p>His brother looked up and met his eyes for the briefest of seconds, and he could tell they both knew the same things — that he was frozen, terrified, unable to do anything but shake. </p><p> </p><p>When his brother shouted a name, sudden confusion broke through it all. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Martin! Martin, get—!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before he could so much as blink, large arms locked around him in a hold like iron. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man — Martin? — chanted breathlessly, then staggered when he saw that their path to the door they’d come in was blocked. The hijabi woman and the Archivist were gone. Escaped already? </p><p> </p><p>He came back to himself enough to struggle, shoving at the grip around his chest in a desperate attempt to get to his brother. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim!” He clawed at the arms that caged him. <em> “Tim!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>As Martin dragged him through a door of yellow wood, the last thing he saw was a look of pure relief on Tim’s face, before a fist collided with his head and he crumpled.</p><p> </p><p>The door shut. Tim was gone. </p><p> </p><p>Mirrors coated the walls in mobius sheets. Danny’s scream shattered them all.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: a short/abstract nightmare sequence, brief references to tim's suicidal ideation, trauma bonds, emotional manipulation</p><p>for those interested, the other day ron and i binged dance/acrobatic performances and found some that really reminded us of what danny and the contortionist's performances would look like!!<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6iyPfEIopU">this one in particular is PERFECT -- just make the woman here a good amount shorter and it matches down to their fuckin hairstyles</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_3441AVaV_XlaqsFEM_9IBJk3">and here's a playlist of some others!</a>]</p><p>in the wings: the understudy takes center stage</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. TEN OF SWORDS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On hiding, seeking, and jumping through rings.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>apologies for how stupidly long this chapter is, but splitting it would be unsatisfactory as HELL. it's a heavy one as i'm sure you've all guessed -- specific warnings in the end note!</p><p>ART!<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/618399548525658112">this very sweet pair of headshots from al!</a>] <i>[link broken atm - to be updated!]</i></p><p>suggested listening: already over - red</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He didn’t recognize the rest stop Helen dropped them at. If she was angry about the shattered mirrors, he didn’t know or care. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as he and Martin emerged, both front doors on a familiar car left idling to the side opened. Jon looked equal parts afraid and relieved. He couldn’t read Basira’s face, though it wasn’t as if he tried. What did it matter? What part of any of this could possibly matter now?</p><p> </p><p>Jon studied them both, and of his warring expressions, fear won out. “Where is Tim? Wasn’t he with you?”</p><p> </p><p>“He was on the other side of the room, and—” When Jon winced at Martin’s volume, he paused. “Sorry, um, my ears are still ringing a bit? He just—”</p><p> </p><p>Before he could finish, the man kicked a loose chunk of asphalt with a wordless shout and sent it flying. No glass broke this time, though it was only out of luck rather than any attempt from him to keep that in check. His hands fisted in his hair as he rocked where he stood, absolute panic and fury roaring through his skull in harmony. </p><p> </p><p>His memory chose to be cruel, and looped the image of that desperate relief on Tim’s face and the blow that struck him down with no end in sight.</p><p> </p><p>A lie. Tim’s end was plain as day.</p><p> </p><p>No, Tim would be kept alive. The thought was not a comforting one.</p><p> </p><p>The instant he registered a hand against his shoulder, he whirled and smacked it away to meet Basira’s steady gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Dan—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Don’t.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She forged ahead. “Leo, then. Come on. We need to regroup.”</p><p> </p><p>“We <em> need </em>to go back and get Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>When she shook her head, fury and neon filled his throat. “We can’t do anything for him without a plan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, because <em> this </em> plan was <em> so </em>foolproof.” He turned to pin Martin with what was as much grin as snarl. “Why didn’t you grab him?”</p><p> </p><p>Despite the ashen pallor to his skin, Martin’s voice nearly kept level. “I couldn’t get you both, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“You should have gotten <em> him! </em>There’s nothing they can do to me they haven’t done before,” Leo spat. “He doesn’t deserve any of that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Neither do you.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin stated it as if it were fact, and Leo could only laugh — choking, strained laughter that bordered on hysteria. Martin had no idea the kind of things Leo had done while he was there. None.</p><p> </p><p>The other three had enough good sense to keep from touching him again as he wrestled to get a modicum of control over himself. When the laughter made way for gasping breath, and again diminished into something tight and shallow, Jon spoke up.</p><p> </p><p>“While you were talking to Helen… he made us all promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo said nothing, but his eyes snapped onto Jon with an intensity that made Jon falter. Was he still smiling? Probably. It didn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>“We all promised that we would do whatever it took to ensure you would not be left there again.” Jon swallowed. “I told him it sounded a bit fatalist, him talking like he wouldn’t be able to ensure it himself, but he pointed out we didn’t know what would happen. Anything was possible.”</p><p> </p><p>When Leo didn’t reply, Jon continued to ramble. “He— He tends to assume the worst when it comes to things like this. I can’t say I blame him.”</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Leo shook his head with another burst of that hysterical laughter. “I’m gonna <em> kill </em>him. He—” Again, his words choked into silence. </p><p> </p><p>After a long, helpless pause, Basira attempted to regain some control over the situation. “We need to go back. I’ll get in touch with Daisy and see how close she is to finishing the job Elias gave her. We’ll need to let him know what happened too, and Melanie.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure Elias already knows,” Jon replied with pursed lips. </p><p> </p><p>Leo couldn’t be bothered to put into words how little he cared about any of this, or how there was nothing he wanted less than to be stuck in a car with these three for hours. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t want to, so he wouldn’t. He could get to Tim's house just fine on his own. </p><p> </p><p>Without saying a thing, he turned on his heel and started down the road. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo! What— Where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>He turned again to glare at Martin. “Going back. We need to <em> regroup, </em>right?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— Yeah, but you should—”</p><p> </p><p>No energy for an argument, certainly not enough for justification.</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s the man in front of you? You know him, but no, he just looks like someone you know.” He could tug at light and sound all he wished, but it was his words that gripped an audience best. Why force some change to what they perceived when he could convince them it was already done?</p><p> </p><p>He knew he was pushing too hard. It didn’t matter in the least. “How many people were in that car when you came here? Only four, right? You lost one. There’s just three. You know you don’t know me. You know you don’t recognize me. Try your best to remember if you want a migraine.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Leo turned to follow a street he recognized as little as they recognized him. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a permanent trick. It didn’t have to be. He didn’t want it to be, probably. They’d shake it by the time they got back to London; Jon, sooner. He just needed to throw them off long enough to get away. </p><p> </p><p>The roads he walked twisted and turned until Tim’s house came into view. There was a reason he’d made a point of never looking at the house number or street signs. </p><p> </p><p>The front door would be locked, he knew. The door at the bank had been locked, too. His surroundings slipped out of focus as he walked until he found himself facing the bathroom mirror. Bigger than it should be. Didn’t matter. He had half a mind to smash the thing, but the mere thought of cleaning up the shards of his own reflection made him want to scream for the thousandth time. </p><p> </p><p>There was no telling how long he paced up and down in the hall. Sharp pain took root in his chest as if razorblade tightwire was woven around his lungs and spine like a loom. His fingers fisted in his hair again until his scalp burned in some futile attempt to ground himself. With how the whole of him felt consumed by fire and terror, he wanted nothing more than the contortionist’s soothing cold to keep him from falling apart. </p><p> </p><p>Yet another thing he couldn’t have. She was with the troupe. He was not.</p><p> </p><p>She was with the troupe. So was Tim. Maybe… Maybe that was good. Maybe she would be kind to him. Maybe she would take care of him like she had Leo — redirecting Nikola where she could, cleaning him up when she couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>It was for the best, then. He trusted her. She would help keep Tim safe in small ways, even if Leo had betrayed her. She would. </p><p> </p><p>With that desperate bit of hope, he found it in himself to drop his hands and drift into the kitchen. No goal. No purpose. Nothing more than a base need to move.</p><p> </p><p>Where was Tim now? Was he left with the backup costumes, forced still and silent until he was chosen to undergo worse? Was he trussed to a chair like Jon, allowed movement and voice only when those keeping him there granted them? Was he meant to be the lucky volunteer in some future show, his life and safety left to nothing more than odds stacked far, far against him? </p><p> </p><p>Intrusive thoughts battered about Leo’s skull as he stared without seeing at the kitchen sink. He wished his four years of experience would give him something concrete rather than just flood his head with possibilities, each more awful than the last. Some, he couldn’t tell if they were imagination or memory. He didn’t want to know. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever Tim’s state, it included a Nikola who’d lost both her ringmaster <em> and </em>the Archivist twice-over. The Archivist, she needed for her dance. Having him back in her reach only to once again let him slip free would infuriate her.</p><p> </p><p>She needed the Archivist for practical reasons, but her ringmaster? That, she would take personally. She’d put so much work into him, after all, taking him apart and reshaping each piece. All that time and effort, and still he broke. Still he failed to play his part; the one cog in the music box that would no longer turn. </p><p> </p><p>Just losing the Archivist would infuriate her, but both of them… </p><p> </p><p>Had Leo gotten himself under control mere moments ago? That was funny, it really was. </p><p> </p><p>Even as his breath careened between rasping pants and busts of that same hysterical laugh, he remained frozen, vacant eyes locked on the rack of dishes next to the sink. Dishes Tim did this morning. Leo hadn’t eaten much of the breakfast he made. Here, now, he couldn’t even remember what it was. Most went to the bin. </p><p> </p><p>He’d gotten too comfortable here. Let his guard down. Forgotten who was in control. </p><p> </p><p>A hand closed around a mug on the edge of the rack. Realizing it was his own took longer than it probably should have, but even that understanding felt distant. </p><p> </p><p>His coffee this morning tasted of sawdust and clove. Sawdust and clove. Sawdust and clove and stuffing all wrapped in secondhand skin, thread pulled tight and searing and perfectly neat with scars as seams. </p><p> </p><p>The shattering of ceramic on linoleum sent caged screams to claw up his throat like bile. If he let any out, the plate that went flying next to burst against plaster masked it. Another. Another. None of it mattered because Tim could make no breakfast when he was worse than dead and the man could not eat it when his life was nothing but smoke and mirrors and awful, scraping laughter. </p><p> </p><p>His vision mirrored on itself in an irony that strangled, half watching sharpshards scatter in violence without catharsis and half certain those shards came as instruments descending on him with a tailor’s precision and a mother’s cruelty. </p><p> </p><p>Tim was gone.</p><p> </p><p>Another mug shattered.</p><p> </p><p>And D— L— <em> He </em>was here. </p><p> </p><p>A plate, now. </p><p> </p><p>Unlike him, Tim could take no solace in experience as a guide for what might happen, as little solace as it was. Far better than the terror of uncertainty and brutal imagination. Tim had no options but that terror and brutality.</p><p> </p><p>Utensils rang together as they clattered to the ground like funeral knells. </p><p> </p><p>Not funeral knells, no. Death would be a mercy. Tim knew that. Tim asked for it, directly. Didn’t want to be imprisoned. Didn’t want to be changed; reduced to nothing but the need to survive, and porcelain. </p><p> </p><p>He made no attempt to honor that request, only froze and watched as the others snatched his brother away. His own cowardice was no secret, not with how glad he was to put his own life before who <em> knew </em>how many innocent others, but he thought Tim would be the exception.</p><p> </p><p>Being proven wrong hurt almost as much as Tim’s absence, because he was nothing at all if not selfish.</p><p> </p><p>The rack was empty. Sending its cheap wood and plastic crashing to the kitchen floor brought no satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t realize how badly he was shaking until his knees gave out below him. With no mind to the shards that littered the floor, he crumpled, legs pulled in and arms tight around his chest. His breath quickened into great heaving gasps that left him lightheaded.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t take feeling this way a moment longer, but even muttering, “The show must go on,” to himself as he rocked in place failed to bring the complete shutdown he wanted. Needed. </p><p> </p><p>Was he growing more numb to the words? That was bad, he knew, very bad. If he was, they were no longer useful. <em> He </em> was no longer useful. His brother had called it a— His brother called it <em> something, </em>but that didn’t matter. He knew what it was: an anchor. A focus. A way to narrow even the most chaotic, disobedient thoughts back to what mattered. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know how to fix this alone. He couldn’t. He should go back. He needed to go back. His brother and his home were together now, so what reason did he have to stay away? </p><p> </p><p>A decision so obvious should have spurred him to act on the spot. Instead, his muscles locked that much tighter. His joints solidified as if there were no balls or hinges, only a single piece.</p><p> </p><p>Nonsensical. Pointless. Worthless. Wrong.</p><p> </p><p>The words looped in his thoughts like a song with no end, but they couldn’t stand against the cymbal crash of a knock on the door.</p><p> </p><p>Still frozen, his eyes darted towards the living room. They found him. His brother was there which meant they could find where he lived and they found him. Would that sugar-sweet voice ask again if anyone was home, just as it had when he and the others hid in the storage room during their escape? </p><p> </p><p>Again, three taps in quick succession. Was that scrape of sharp points against wood next, a succinct reminder of his very worst plastic-on-bone memories? </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing to hold the door shut this time. No protective figures pushing their full weight against it. No <em> deux ex machina </em>in the form of spiral halls and red glasses. </p><p> </p><p>Even if he could convince his body to cooperate, there was no point in running.</p><p> </p><p>Another knock. He wished they would stop taunting him, but that was all part of the fun, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>“Leo?”</p><p> </p><p>What?</p><p> </p><p>“Leo, um, it’s Martin.” A pause. “You weren’t at the Institute, so I thought you probably came here.” </p><p> </p><p>His joints cracked open as he pushed himself to unsteady feet, then staggered towards the front door.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, you, um. You might not be here, and I’m talking to an empty house. I just wanted to make sure you were—”</p><p> </p><p>He opened the door to meet Martin’s wide eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“—Alright,” Martin finished lamely. </p><p> </p><p>“What do you want.” With no emotion or inflection, the words came as a statement. </p><p> </p><p>“What I said — just to check on you.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo nodded to the duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “And that?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin shifted the strap. “I just… I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to be alone, is all. If you’re alright with it,” he continued, then cleared his throat. “I thought it’d probably be better for me to stay here? Just until Tim’s back. It’s— it’s okay if not, but I wanted to offer.”</p><p> </p><p>For a long moment, Leo said nothing, face blank.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not sleeping in his room.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin shook his head with a short, awkward laugh. “I slept on a cot in the archives for four months, I think I’ll be fine on the couch.”</p><p> </p><p>Another beat, then Leo stepped aside.</p><p> </p><p>It took only seconds after Martin set his bag down for him to notice the kitchen’s mess through the wide doorframe. Leo expected frustration — he just arrived, and already had to deal with the collateral of Leo’s fractures. Instead, he did nothing more than turn to Leo with easy concern.</p><p> </p><p>“Where do you guys keep the broom around here?” Frank, comfortable. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t know where it is.” He grasped for that same simple comfort and came up wanting. “I haven’t needed— I mean, Tim would know, but I— I don’t know, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, hey!” Martin cut off his snowballing with raised hands. “It’s alright, we’ll track it down.” </p><p> </p><p>He trailed behind Martin, lost and useless, until at last the broom turned up in the hall closet. Sitting on a nearby stool to watch as Martin carefully swept made his throat close in something near shame, but he couldn’t parse his thoughts near enough to differentiate beyond that.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” It took a moment to recognize his own voice from where he sat, head dipped low. </p><p> </p><p>Martin swept the last pieces into the dustpan. “It’s fine, Leo, really. Stuff like this is pretty reasonable when you’re going through this much.”</p><p> </p><p>A placating lie, he was sure. <em> Martin </em>didn’t seem the type to throw tantrums and shatter things that didn’t even belong to him at the first sign of distress. </p><p> </p><p>Ceramic bits clattered together as Martin emptied his dustpan into the bin, then set the scattered utensils into the sink to wash later. He took a deep breath, clearly about to say something, when the chirp of his phone from the living room interrupted him. </p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t stand as Martin passed by him, only turned to face into the living room and watched Martin reach over the back of the couch to answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, what— Now? Yeah, he’s—” Martin’s eyes widened as he looked over to Leo and waved a hand, almost frantic. “What is it? Just— Okay, yeah. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>He hung up and shoved his phone in one pocket, already hunting for his keys. Leo came over as beckoned.</p><p> </p><p>“Who was that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Basira. She told us to come to the Institute.” Martin’s lips pressed tight together as he met Leo’s eyes. “Nikola left a message.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tape came as no surprise.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he and Martin came into the archives, he went straight to the desk Jon sat at — not his own, but from Leo’s quick glance, it looked like everyone was there. No way they could all jam together in Jon’s office.</p><p> </p><p>No prelude needed. “Play it.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon sent him a cautious look. “I was going to listen myself first, just to make sure there’s nothing too—”</p><p> </p><p>“Play the g-ddamn tape.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t know what expression he wore beyond that old smile, but whatever it was, it kept Jon from arguing further. He felt Martin come up close to one side, but before he could tell him to back off, Jon hit play.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hello, all!” </em> Nikola’s voice was never smooth to begin with, and the imperfections added by the medium didn’t help. <em> “Elias — can I call you Elias? — and the Archivist and my dear ringmaster! And the rest of you, whatever your names are.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>One of the others let out a short scoff, but thankfully stayed quiet. Leo had no intention of missing any word. </p><p> </p><p><em> “I had an idea! You all seem to enjoy playing such dangerous games, and I know my lovely ringmaster has lots and lots of </em> <em> practice. How would you all enjoy a scavenger hunt?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Everyone’s necks were going to get tired if they continued to insist on looking over at him every time Nikola said his title. He didn’t break his own stare at the tape. Didn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Not just for your friend here, of course. That’d be so </em> boring! <em> Archivist, I asked you before to find that very important skin for me, but I don’t think you tried very hard. I’m giving you a second chance, because I’m a good friend!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Her voice softened to something poisonous. <em> “Will you look for what I need, and leave your Tim here with me? I promise he won’t be bored. Or, will you try to find wherever I decide to put him, and risk me losing my patience? I can’t </em> wait <em> to find out!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo’s chest went tight. Another ultimatum. Another game. Another choice with a right answer he couldn’t see.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Maybe a hello would motivate!” </em> Rustling noises echoed out from the player, then Nikola spoke again. <em> “How are you feeling?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Cloth muffled the consonants and left Tim’s reply nothing but meaningless grumbles, but if Leo knew his brother, he’d just given Nikola a hearty <em> fuck off. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Not nearly as well behaved as you, ringmaster! So rude.”   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>More muffled noises, and Nikola laughed. <em> “Well, </em> you <em> can’t compel anyone, so I think taking that off for a moment would be just fine! It makes for some </em> lovely <em> audio.” </em> Rustling, a satisfied sound from Nikola. <em> “There we are! Now, I was thinking we should send a present with this recording, just so your friends know you’re still here. Maybe… one of your fingers!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Silence, then: <em> “Seems a bit over-the-top.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon’s face slipped from where it was propped on one hand to press his palm against his eyes with an odd, helpless smile. At Leo’s side, Martin let out a slow breath.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You have ten of them! You’re being greedy, honestly. What is </em> one <em> finger?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jumps the gun of dramatic escalation. Hard to go up from there. You of all people should know how that works.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nikola gasped with delight, and Leo wanted nothing more than to shake Tim by the shoulders and tell him to shut the hell up. She needed no encouragement.</p><p> </p><p><em> “How about… this, then!” </em>Another short grumble from Tim, but nothing pained or alarmed. That was good. That had to be good. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Perfect. That was a very good point, my dear — have you considered work in the entertainment business? I think you could be a star!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s blood ran cold. Tim’s reply came without delay, but there was no missing the added note of apprehension. <em> “Uh, if this whole thing is a job interview, hard pass. I think this is the only job I’d hate more than my current one.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Again, a laugh from Nikola. <em> “Oh, minds are easy to change. That’ll be all from you!” </em> Based on the muffled cursing followed by silence, Leo assumed she’d waved for someone to replace the gag. <em> “Tick-tock, Elias — can I call you Elias? Archivist, my ringmaster — you’re smart boys. I simply can’t </em> wait <em> to see what you do next! It’s just like we’re back at the beginning. I even went to the trouble of getting my own recorder! Nostalgia is sweet, isn’t it? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Good luck, lovelies. Find me the skin. Much more than your dear friend’s life depends on it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With one last soft whirr from the tape player, the recording ended. </p><p> </p><p>Leo looked up at Jon. “What did they leave with the tape?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just this.” Jon set a gold band on the desk — Tim’s ring. Leo couldn’t remember where he’d gotten it. It didn’t mean anything beyond its place as something Tim wore almost every day. Meaning enough for this. </p><p> </p><p>With only a brief hesitation, Leo scooped it up. It’d be too big for his thin fingers, so he slipped it in his pocket. He could string it on a necklace or something later, just to ensure he wouldn’t lose it. That way, he could give it back as soon as they found Tim again. </p><p> </p><p>“It sounds like he’s as safe as you can be somewhere like that,” Basira surmised. </p><p> </p><p>Leo shook his head. “He’s not like me. He’s not going to cooperate unless they make him. Maybe he would have at some point, but he— he’s different now. We don’t have a lot of time.” </p><p> </p><p>“…What do you mean, make him?” Martin’s hands wrung together.</p><p> </p><p>“You know what I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“N-No, can’t say that I do. Like, um, mind control, or—” </p><p> </p><p>Leo whirled on him. “He’s not going to cooperate unless they <em> beat </em>him into submission, is what I mean. Plenty they can do that won’t kill him. Even if they don’t want to leave scars, there’s no shortage of options.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin paled. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“I could outline what they might use!” His smile was deadly sharp now, he knew; an old part of his costume, long screwed into place. “Maybe in order of what they think will be most effective, or what they can <em> really </em> draw out. I’ll draw you a damn time table, is <em> that </em>what you want to hear?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. No, it’s not.” There was an apology in each syllable, and not one Leo felt much like accepting.</p><p> </p><p>“Then don’t ask if you can’t handle the whole truth.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira pulled them back on track. “She said something about a particular skin. Jon?”</p><p> </p><p>“An old bit of taxidermy,” Jon answered. “Gorilla skin. It’s what they used last time they attempted the ritual.”</p><p> </p><p>The Unknowing was attempted before? Did it not…? </p><p> </p><p>Not the point right now.</p><p> </p><p>“Do we know where it is?” Basira asked. </p><p> </p><p>Jon pushed up his glasses from where they’d slid down his nose. “I think so, yes. There’s a storage unit I was going to check, but with all this I haven’t had the time.” </p><p> </p><p>“Split up, then,” Daisy said from Basira’s other side. “One group goes for that. The other follows whatever clue Nikola gave about where Tim is. She said this was a hunt for both, so she must have left a lead in there somewhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“She did.” Leo’s fingers rolled the ring in his pocket. “I think she—” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie interrupted with a short, sharp gesture. “Can you stop bloody <em> smiling </em>at everything?”</p><p> </p><p>The room went quiet. Slowly, he turned to face her. His expression did not shift.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” he asked with a voice soft and cold as a kiss.</p><p> </p><p>Her jaw set, and though he could tell she regret speaking she didn’t back down. “That smile, you— We’re talking about your brother being <em> held </em>by these things and you’re just— grinning away!”</p><p> </p><p>Acid coated his throat, and he let it seep into every word. “Do you want to know why I smile, Melanie?”</p><p> </p><p>From her face, it was clear she did not. Tough. Should’ve thought of that before she opened her damn mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“‘Head up, ringmaster!’ ‘Smile, ringmaster!’ ‘Make sure everyone can see that pretty face, ringmaster!’”</p><p> </p><p>He advanced with each quote, and knew his impression of Nikola could only be described as uncanny. The words rang out past the muzzle of his grin. “‘I <em> know </em>it hurts, ringmaster, but make sure the audience doesn’t know. You wouldn’t want to disrupt the show, would you?’”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t quote the contortionist, though she was the first to say as much. From her, it was to prepare him for when Nikola demanded the same, and he could be only grateful.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, there was no danger in,<em> Smile, and you’ll feel better. And it won’t hurt as much. And you’ll be able to endure anything. </em>After enough practice, it was even true.</p><p> </p><p>“‘Oh, ringmaster, I don’t like repeating myself! We might have to make some <em> modifications, </em> my dear. Just two quick cuts, it’ll be over like <em> that.’” </em>Melanie flinched at the deafening snap of his fingers. “‘And you’ll smile forever.’”</p><p> </p><p>Far more deafening than his snap was the silence. To Melanie’s credit, she kept eye contact, but he could see the struggle behind it.</p><p> </p><p>“Do I need to keep going?”</p><p> </p><p>“...No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Glad to hear it. Can we focus on the actual <em> issue, </em>now?” </p><p> </p><p>“Before that.” Daisy’s voice was stone cold. “We should ask ourselves if it’s smart to do their work for them.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo whipped around to look her in the eye. “And leave Tim there to whatever Nikola’s plans are?”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t relent. “We could be walking into anything. We walked into an ambush last time we moved against them.” Her eyes went sharp enough to tear. “Pretty convenient that we’re being sent on another chase that could end in your crew capturing us all, easy.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “My </em>crew?” Leo’s head rang with tuneless rage. “You think this is a setup. That I’m some— some double agent.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I said.” </p><p> </p><p>“But that’s what you <em> meant.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Martin inched his way between them. “Guys, we just need to—”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t let him finish before darting forwards. How <em> dare </em> she suggest that he wanted this? How fucking dare she act like his brother being held there, his worst nightmare, was something he <em> orchestrated?  </em></p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know what he intended to do, but he knew he would make it hurt.</p><p> </p><p>Strong arms caught him around the middle, and Martin’s voice crashed over him. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo! Stop— Come on, she didn’t— Stop, Leo, <em> stop—” </em></p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t anything Martin did that stopped his struggling. It was the look on Daisy’s face. Old blood lingered under her nails, and her eyes said,<em> give me an excuse. </em></p><p> </p><p>To her, he was a time bomb; an explosion that would go off sooner rather than later, and would take all of them down with it. If he gave her half a reason to set it off now and save herself the trouble down the road, she would take it in a heartbeat. </p><p> </p><p>Tim placed himself between them before. Tim had been ready and willing to take that bullet should she fire. </p><p> </p><p>If Leo pushed her to that same place now, it’d feel like spitting that resilient defense in the face. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Martin held on a few more seconds after Leo stopped fighting before he dropped his arms. That fire and anger in Leo’s chest went nowhere, but he kept it banked.</p><p> </p><p>“She said back at the beginning. Nostalgia.” His voice came stillborn, and still he smiled. “Covent Garden Theatre. Whoever wants to come can.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me and Basira with you,” Daisy replied immediately. “Martin and Melanie with Jon.” </p><p> </p><p>“Daisy, we should probably split up,” Basira cut in. “That way each group has a trained pair of hands.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a long beat of silence as Daisy looked at Basira, then said only, “Fine.” She missed her partner. Heartbreaking, if Leo didn’t hate her. “I’ll go with Leo. You in, Melanie?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo snorted. She had to keep her rogue element in check. </p><p> </p><p>“Um.” Martin’s tone was a strange blend of nervous and resolute. “How about I come with you and Leo, Daisy? And Melanie goes with Jon and Basira.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine with me.” No missing Melanie’s relief. She wasn’t alone in it. </p><p> </p><p>Leo looked the others over, then turned on his heel. “Let’s go.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shouldn’t we— I don’t know, plan something?” Martin asked at his heels. </p><p> </p><p>“We can figure it out on the way.” Leo’s stride didn’t falter. “I’m not leaving Tim there any longer than I have to.” </p><p> </p><p>Daisy didn’t hesitate to push past him and take the lead. From his back, he heard Martin turn to the other three. “Uh— Good luck, I guess?” </p><p> </p><p>If they said anything in return, Leo paid it no mind. They were losing daylight. </p><p> </p><p>Losing daylight. Basira had said the very same thing before they struck the wax museum. He could hope all he wished it was no bad omen, but the apprehension it brought refused to budge.</p><p> </p><p>Losing daylight. With any luck, that was all they would lose.</p><p> </p><p>Leo had never been a lucky man.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The sun was long set by the time Daisy pulled into a car park a couple blocks from the theatre. Must be late, if the yawn Martin hid behind one hand was anything to go by — though, considering how early they left for Great Yarmouth, exhaustion meant little. </p><p> </p><p>If Leo was tired, he didn’t feel it. If Daisy was, she didn’t show it. They had a job to do.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Martin began as he lifted his glasses to rub his eyes with one hand. “I’m sure that the whole time we were silent in the car, you both came up with a great plan, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy raised a brow. “We go in. We get Tim. We leave.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if there’s, y’know, someone who tries to stop us?” </p><p> </p><p>She set a hand on the holster strapped to her hip. “If there’s resistance, I shoot it. No more resistance.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo let out a needleprick laugh. “What exactly do you think bullets will do against stuffing or plastic?”</p><p> </p><p>“Doubt you’re unique. There’s some others there that’re a bit more biological.” She reached around to her other hip and pulled out a baton. “This might not kill anything, but if they can’t move their limbs, that’s all we need.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um, not really<em> fine. </em>” Martin remained unconvinced. “You were the one all worried about an ambush, so...”</p><p> </p><p>He trailed off as Daisy circled to dig something out of the trunk, clearly ignoring him. </p><p> </p><p>Leo glanced over to him. “It won’t be like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know?” Martin asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Because that’s not the game we’re playing. You heard Nikola: it’s a scavenger hunt.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy nodded at them as she shut the trunk, a new pack slung over her shoulders. Together, the three began their short walk to the Royal Opera House.</p><p> </p><p>“She might change the rules later, but not now.” She hadn’t been wrong about the players, either — Leo had plenty of practice with her games. “This is round one.”</p><p> </p><p>The building came into view. No shows or audience, not at this time of night, but it was far from empty. The whole place would be crawling with security, not to mention who <em> knew </em>how many unblinking cameras. </p><p> </p><p>“So, let’s pretend any of that was an <em> actual </em> plan,” Martin muttered from his place between Leo and Daisy. “Do we have anything for how we intend to break and enter at the <em> Royal Opera House?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Don’t need to,” Leo replied. “We’re not going there. We’re going to Covent Garden.”</p><p> </p><p>As he turned onto James Street, Martin’s grumble of, “Can either of you give <em> one </em>straight answer?” nearly made him laugh. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered the route he used before. He didn’t think he would ever forget it. Down one road, another turn into a back lot, and just as expected: the same old, rusted door he used so many years ago.</p><p> </p><p>In those years, someone had replaced the chain and lock looped between the door handles. He could get inside in an instant, but the others would be tricky. Maybe if he ducked in, he could find a key? A long shot, but with people who couldn’t travel like he did, it might be their only option.</p><p> </p><p>“Out of the way.” Daisy pushed past Leo. He half expected her to shoot the lock, but instead she set her backpack on the ground and began to rifle through it.</p><p> </p><p>In moments she resurfaced with a small set of bolt cutters in hand. One loud snap later, the chain slipped free and unspooled to the ground, clattering with an odd sort of musicality. </p><p> </p><p>“There.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin stared at her. “So, do you just bring those everywhere, or…?”</p><p> </p><p>“When I might need them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go,” Leo interrupted. He couldn’t have cared less what Daisy kept in her car on a normal day, and today was anything but. </p><p> </p><p>The rusty screech of the door as he pulled it open made his ears ring. Unpleasant, but easy to ignore. If any security heard and came to investigate, he had no doubts he could talk them into looking the other way. It’d be a snap. Minds were so easy to change, after all. </p><p> </p><p>June’s heat made no dent in the freezing cold air as they came in. Columns stood in choral symmetry. Everything — the floors, the walls, the Smirke-precise geometry — was spotless. </p><p> </p><p>“Even after Tim described it,” Martin mused aloud. “It’s still weird seeing it this… I don’t know, <em> pristine.” </em></p><p> </p><p>As if the name was a stage cue, voices filled the air. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Welcome, welcome, friends! I knew you would make it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Martin startled with a bitten-off gasp, and Leo could practically hear every one of Daisy’s muscles tense. He didn’t move. There was a tinny quality to the voice, like it was coming through speakers. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t matter. Not when it came to <em>her.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Come join us on the stage! You remember where we first met, right, ringmaster?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“This way.” Leo’s voice was flat. He remembered plenty.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe they need some encouragement. Say hello, my dear!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Muffled noises. Gagged noises. The sharp pop of plastic against skin.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You need to speak up. They can’t hear you!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another sharp sound, and a grunt. Leo’s pace quickened. He assumed the others were close behind. No reason to check. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Your brother was not </em> nearly <em> this difficult, I swear.” </em></p><p> </p><p>There, the auditorium door, just at the end of the hall. Leo moved faster, nearly running. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Well, not for </em> long, <em> anyway. We have our work cut out for us, don’t we? Ah, well. That’s a problem for later. Your cue has arrived!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo burst through the door. It was just as he remembered — all rough-hewn stone in the crude shapes of the theatre. Stone seats, stone curtains, stone guests. Their faces were blank, bar small indents to represent eyes. Each one looked intently at the stage, just as they had when he was the night’s entertainment. </p><p> </p><p>There on the stage stood a single figure. Long, dark hair fell loose and tangled, obscuring a lowered face. The figure swayed as if unable to keep steady.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Tim!” </em>From just behind Leo, Martin raced forward with relief and fear filling his voice in equal measure. </p><p> </p><p>Daisy didn’t hurry. Like Leo, she understood as soon as she came through the door. </p><p> </p><p>Martin reached the stage by the time Leo and Daisy did the lowest rings of seats. With a heave, he pulled himself onto it, then turned to the pair of them.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on! He’s—” Rather than put words to whatever state he believed Tim was in, he turned back to the figure. “Tim, it’s— it’s Martin, we’re here to…” </p><p> </p><p>That close, Martin must have put it together. Leo pulled himself onto the stage as Martin’s voice trailed into silence. </p><p> </p><p>An old-fashioned automaton stood in the middle of the stage. The clothes were a fair imitation of what Tim had been wearing when they went to the wax museum. Its hair was a cheap wig, only passable because of how dim the auditorium was. It gave a faint whirr as it once again swayed where it stood. </p><p> </p><p>Written on the smooth expanse of its face, hidden by tangled hair, were the words, <em> Too slow!, </em>followed by a curling heart. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Oh, don’t look so glum!” </em> A tittering laugh. <em> “Well, I assume you look glum. This is just a recording, after all, but my ringmaster is so very predictable! He knows his lines well, the dear.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo’s hands curled tight. Her voice, this stage. Old, acrid fear bit into the back of his throat and ran like oil paint down his skin. His breath was slow and deep and gave him no oxygen, none, not here, not with her, and— </p><p> </p><p>And a hand closed on his wrist. Large, warm.</p><p> </p><p>Had he shut his eyes? Bracing for what was to come, no doubt, but nothing did. Nothing but that hand — not as dark as the one that normally grounded him, but just as steady. He looked up to meet Martin’s concerned face. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll find him, okay? I promise.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t have it in him to argue or agree, not while the recording continued on. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Such a pity I can’t see whatever delightful faces you’re making. Unless any of you would like to come say hello to me personally, that is! There’s someone here that misses you very much, ringmaster. Even if you have no time for dear old Nikola, surely you haven’t forgotten </em>her!”</p><p> </p><p>The reminder struck like a blade. Why couldn’t she have come with them? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “If you came back, it could be a whole harlequin’s wedding! Wouldn’t that be a treat? The audience as your wedding party — it’d be perfect. Oh, but we’d need to know what name to put on the invitation, right?”   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s hand tightened on Leo’s arm. He sent Leo a confused look, but it wasn’t as if Leo could guess where this was going. Not when <em> she </em>was running the show. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Let me just… there! Say hello to all your lovely friends.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Piss off.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s voice was rougher now, but that could be plain disuse. Nothing worth agonizing over. </p><p> </p><p>As if that would stop Leo from agonizing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I have a question!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whatever it is, already gave you the answer.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nikola let out another ear-splitting laugh. Daisy seemed unmoved by it all, though that was no surprise. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What is the ringmaster’s name?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...What?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s eyes flew open. The mere thought of that name coming from her mouth made his heart race. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “His name! You’re his brother, you ought to know it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Do you not?” </em> Even in <em> whatever </em>state he was in, there was no taking the sarcastic edge from his skepticism. </p><p> </p><p>Nikola hummed, and there was another sharp sound followed by a short hiss from Tim. When Leo flinched, Martin moved his hand to rest it firmly on Leo’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That’s not how things work here. What is his name?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>After a long pause, Tim replied. <em> “Faramir.” </em></p><p> </p><p>A laugh burst from Martin, and he slapped his hand over his mouth. Leo nearly joined in with how off-guard the reference caught him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Come on, doesn’t he look like a Faramir to you?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No, I— What?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Never seen </em> Lord of the Rings? <em> Those are classics. The books are good enough, bit dense.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You are impossible to talk to.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Okay, fine, you got me.” </em> Leo could almost picture Tim’s face, with that stupid half-smile he got when about to make some awful joke. <em> “His name is Elmo.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Someone put his gag back on.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Seriously, it’s Elmo, I swear. I told our mum it was a bad call, but—”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Muffled noises cut off the rest of the sentence. From where Martin’s face was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking, he wheezed, “He’s going to get himself <em> killed.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Well, ignoring that!” </em>Leo could hear muted protest in the background — possibly something worth concern, more likely Tim insisting his jokes couldn’t be ignored.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Your next clue has been given, my dears. If you need to take the recording back to the big, stupid Eye, well… Check my lovely doppelganger’s chest — it’s set right in! I’m an accommodating ringmistress, wouldn’t you say? Hurry on! Unless, of course, you choose to do the smart thing and find me my skin. Too slow, and I may have to look into replacements.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Replacement skin. Of course. Of course that was her plan. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Good luck!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A thunk, another whirr, and the voice echoing from every corner went silent at last. </p><p> </p><p>Leo pulled the automaton’s shirt upwards. As expected, he found a tape set into the metal of its chest. Written on it in the same looping script that covered its face was, <em> Round 2! </em></p><p> </p><p>With a short tug, it pulled free. He could only stare at the cursed thing. A sudden impulse to throw it, crush it, <em> break </em>it shot down his arms, and he shoved the bit of plastic Martin’s way. Let someone who wasn’t so volatile carry it.  </p><p> </p><p>He wished Tim hadn’t made a<em> Lord of the Rings </em>reference earlier. Christ. Gave him a ring and everything.</p><p> </p><p>“How did they do all this so fast?” Martin wondered aloud as he put the tape in his pocket. Without any recorded voice to drown them out, their footsteps echoed in the still air as they made their way back to the door. </p><p> </p><p>Trying not to feel watched was pointless. They had a full house, after all. Being watched was inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not the only one who can make travel easier. If we couldn’t all do it, there wouldn’t be much point, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure, okay, but…” Martin paused, thinking. “How would they move Tim from place to place?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo let out a sigh as they finally traded the freezing halls of the theatre for warm night air. “That many of them, they’d have enough power behind it to bring someone along. Especially if he’s blindfolded or something, and he can’t orient himself.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s how it works with the people there, then?” Daisy asked. “The ‘backup costumes.’”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. We moved as a group.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no way he could deny that he missed it. Traveling together, exploring the places they came to, building their sets, reveling in that heady anticipation that came with a fresh audience — all as one unit. One troupe. A family, even. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing he could voice, not ever. Not to these two. Not to anyone. The only ones who would understand were the ones he left behind.</p><p> </p><p>Had Nikola been honest, before? Did the contortionist truly miss him? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t let it matter, not now. Not when they still had yet to save Tim.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t let it matter, but he didn’t know how to make it stop. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe, maybe, if he was very lucky… Maybe he could save her, too. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>  </p><p>  </p><p>Leo paid no mind to the going conversation until he heard Martin give Daisy a few small directions.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m parked just around the corner there.” </p><p> </p><p>She pulled to a stop next to Martin’s car. Leo lifted his head. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re not going back to Tim’s house yet, are we?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the middle of the night,” Martin explained as he slid out from the back seat. “We’re going to meet again tomorrow morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo joined him outside the car. “We have a new tape, we can’t just— I don’t know what clue Nikola left straight off like I did the other one, we need to listen through it again and figure out the clue, and, and where it’s leading, and—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “And </em>we’ll have a better chance of finding it after we’ve gotten some rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Behind him, he heard Daisy drive off, but that was no matter. “I didn’t sleep for four years, I think I’ll be fine with one night off.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t—” Martin cut himself off even as his brows rose. “Well, the rest of us need it still. Even if you’d be alright, it probably wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Tim would want you to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t use him to win an argument.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not.” Martin opened the driver-side door of his own car. “I’m just telling you the same thing he would.”</p><p> </p><p>As much as Leo hated to admit it, Martin wasn’t wrong. Tim would tell him to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Tim would also be there if he woke shaking and certain all touch meant pain. Not now. Not tonight. Leo was alone. </p><p> </p><p>He was good with his words, but he didn’t think there was a great way to introduce his sort of nightmares. Not as they drove to Tim’s house with the faintest traces of light edging over the horizon, at any rate. He also didn’t want one to happen without warning — they weren’t every night, but he couldn’t imagine all this would leave him with restful sleep. </p><p> </p><p>He’d rest. He wouldn’t sleep. That was as close to a middle ground as he could manage.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if they would let Tim sleep, anyway. Not for long.</p><p> </p><p>Thinking about all that made his chest hurt. All the things he didn’t know, combined with all the things he knew were possible… </p><p> </p><p>No, he would not be sleeping tonight. </p><p> </p><p>“You still have the tape, right?” What if Martin left it in Daisy’s car? What if he dropped it? What if Leo was misremembering, and had never given it to him? What if he left it somewhere? What if it was— </p><p> </p><p>“Mhm,” Martin said without looking away from the road. “Right here.” With some shifting to maneuver around his seatbelt, he tugged it free from his pocket and held it Leo’s way. </p><p> </p><p>Carefully, Leo took it. The looping <em> Round 2! </em>written on the front sent another rush of anger through him, with all the same urges to break it, but he kept motionless. It was the key, after all. Somewhere on it was the next piece of the puzzle. </p><p> </p><p>The night passed in increments so slow it felt like they were mocking him. Every time Leo thought he might be able to slip into that old hazy blur he once used to pass long stretches of time without sleep, his eyes caught on the tape on his bedside table. No matter how close he came to fog, it burrowed into his chest like a fishhook and dragged him back to gasping fear. By the time he heard Martin stir in the living room, he was certain he’d worn a trench in the carpet from his pacing. </p><p> </p><p>For as much as Martin had insisted Leo sleep, he looked like he’d gotten very little, himself. He sent Leo a wave as he yawned and shuffled off to the bathroom. </p><p> </p><p>Routine. Right. Leo would have his coffee, and Tim would— </p><p> </p><p>No. Martin would do whatever Martin did, because that was how things worked now. Just temporary. Just until Tim came back. </p><p> </p><p>Was Leo supposed to make anything? Was Martin expecting him to? Did he ask, and Leo just forgot? </p><p> </p><p>The coffeepot answered none of his internal questions. Bastard.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought we could—”</p><p> </p><p>Leo jumped as Martin came into the kitchen, and Martin winced. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine.” Or, it would be fine once Leo’s heart stopped racing. “What were you saying?” </p><p> </p><p>“Just that we could stop at a cafe or something on the way in. I’m not much use in the kitchen,” Martin said with a sheepish look. “Mostly just stick to frozen things. But we do still need to eat.” </p><p> </p><p>New routine. He could make it work. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>“It was destroyed. The skin, that is. Gertrude destroyed it.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie nudged Jon to the side. “Most people start with <em>hello.</em> But yeah, we found what was left of it. We also found, uh—” </p><p> </p><p>Jon nudged her right back. “Not here.” To the others, he continued. “What did you all find?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just this.” Leo held up the tape. </p><p> </p><p>Martin added, “And a weird automaton… thing?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like some cyborg or something?” Melanie asked with her head cocked. “Or was it all steampunk-y?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it just… stood there. I think they tried to make it look like Tim, but it didn’t even have a face. It had hair, and the clothes were kind of like his, but that’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo looked over. “You thought it was him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> wanted </em>it to be him.” Leo couldn’t read Martin’s face. “But there’s not much looking past some little note about how we were too slow where his face should have been.” </p><p> </p><p>Too slow. Not a mistake he would make again. They were wasting time. </p><p> </p><p>Leo held the tape forward. “I don’t know what the clue here is, but I only got to listen to it once. I don’t think Tim keeps a tape player at his house, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“I very much doubt he does,” Jon agreed. “I’ll give it a listen, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m listening with you.” Leo’s tone brooked no argument. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s brows flew up at his intensity, but he nodded. “Fine, sure.” </p><p> </p><p>“We should probably act like we’re still looking for the other skin, right?” Melanie folded her arms. “I mean, it’s as much leverage as we have. If they know that the old skin isn’t an option anymore, then there’s nothing to keep Tim—”</p><p> </p><p>“Great idea, Melanie!” Martin blustered over her words. “We’ll think about how to do that right now, you two go try and figure out the next clue.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s jaw ached with how tightly it clenched, but he nodded once and followed Jon into his office. </p><p> </p><p>A second listen revealed no hidden truths, though when Tim’s string of jokes sent Jon to bury his face in his hands just as it did Martin the night before, Leo almost worked up a smile. </p><p> </p><p>Neither of them pointed out how they both flinched at those sudden pops of hard sound. Neither of them mentioned how stiff they both grew at Nikola’s voice. Jon made no comment on how Leo settled far back into his seat, and Leo made none on how Jon chose to stand and rest against a nearby filing cabinet rather than remain in his own chair. </p><p> </p><p>Leo knew whatever solidarity they shared was muted by his role as an instrument in Jon’s captivity. He would just… have to live with that. No apology would sound true, and he wasn’t much of a wordsmith at the moment. </p><p> </p><p>When the player at last went silent, Jon let out a long, slow breath. Leo sat forward once more.</p><p> </p><p>“Did any of that stand out to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Grim, Jon returned to sit. “Not then, no. Do you think she might have used something more covert this time? Like, a— another layer to the audio hidden beneath the words, or something we can only hear played backwards.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s worth checking, I guess, but it doesn’t seem much like her.” Leo twisted the ring in his hands as he thought. “She’s more of the <em> hide in plain sight </em>kind of person.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon conceded with a nod. “That does seem more like the Stranger. Did you catch anything listening again?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Meaning there <em> was </em>something.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s— I don’t even know how it’d connect, honestly. It might just be something she said to— I don’t know, get to me somehow.” His arms crossed. “The whole thing about a wedding.” </p><p> </p><p>“With the one she said missed you.” Jon hesitated. “She meant the… <em> individual </em>you spoke to while we were there, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” Leo wasn’t eager to elaborate on any of that, not unless he had to. “The thing is, I… Yes, she and I are— or, or we <em> were—” </em>He shook his head. “Nikola knew about our relationship, of course, but marriage wasn’t exactly something anyone thought about. Not unless it was the setup for a show.” </p><p> </p><p>“So her bringing it up is unusual, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Like I said, it might not be a clue, just…” Just what? An incentive? A taunt? An olive branch? “Just a message.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon nodded. “Regardless, we should keep it in mind. I’ll ask the others to see what they can find about some kind of connection between marriage and circuses.” He blinked. “Which… is a very strange pair of words. I’ll listen through again to see if I can find any other leads.”</p><p> </p><p>“What should I do?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, um.” With an odd look on his face, Jon took a moment to think. “Maybe… Daisy said she intends to stake out the theatre on the off chance one of the troupe comes back for whatever they left there. You would be able to catch things she might miss because of the Stranger’s obfuscation. If you’re not comfortable with that, you could—” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go with her.” The mere thought of spending his day hunting through old books or whatever else made him feel stir-crazy. He was under no illusions that it’d be an exciting job, not when stakeouts were by their nature an exercise in patience, but it felt more active — the <em> potential </em> to do something.</p><p> </p><p>Tim had always been a books kind of guy. Leo needed to move.</p><p> </p><p>Jon already looked uncertain about his own suggestion. “Are you sure you’ll be alright spending all that time with her?”</p><p> </p><p>“For this? I would take her on a damn lunch date if it’d help.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough. We’ll be sure to keep in touch from here.”</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, both she and Basira were already there when he reentered the archives proper — must have shown up when he was talking to Jon. How he would have tracked Daisy down otherwise, he had no idea.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy was rather amenable to him accompanying her, much to his surprise. She knew just as well as Jon that every hunter had a blindspot. Leo’s feelings towards her might’ve been mixed at best, but there was no denying that she knew how to use her resources.</p><p> </p><p>“Think you can keep up?” she asked when Leo told her he was coming along.</p><p> </p><p>Leo snorted. “I should be the one asking you that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Heh.” Leo caught a flicker in her eyes. Intrigue. “Only one way to find out.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>“Gonna get a refill. It’s my turn to grab the coffee, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm. Be fast. Don’t want anything <em> strange </em>to get past me while you’re gone.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Black, two—”</p><p> </p><p>“Two sugars. I <em> know.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Get going.”</p><p> </p><p>“Since you asked so nicely.”</p><p> </p><p>“Watch it.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>If the previous night felt endless, the day staking out the Royal Opera House was a small eternity, and still they had nothing to show for it.</p><p> </p><p>The next night put them both to shame. Each minute felt like hours, and knowing they must feel even longer to Tim only stretched them more. </p><p> </p><p>The tape stayed at the archives — safer that way. Part of Leo had hoped that, without it there to endlessly drag him back to wide-awake tremors, he might be able to relax, but he knew from the beginning there was no chance of that. All its absence did was send Leo’s mind spinning — what if something happened to it? What if someone took it? What if it was mistakenly thrown out by janitorial staff? </p><p> </p><p>Nonsense, of course. Leo wasn’t sure if the Institute <em> had </em>janitorial staff, or if it did, that they ever ventured down to the archives. The others wouldn’t dare do something to damage the tape, and Jon would have put it somewhere safe. He must have. </p><p> </p><p>Reassuring himself didn’t make Leo’s night pass any faster. That would have been too easy. </p><p> </p><p>When he and Daisy bit the bullet the next day and went back into Covent Garden Theatre themselves, the absence of any automaton came as no surprise. Expecting anyone from the troupe to use a door the two of them could see had always been a long shot.</p><p> </p><p>All the seats were empty. None of the stone audience remained. Curtain call had come and gone, and there was no encore. </p><p> </p><p>Leo intended to tell Jon about what happened — or rather, <em> didn’t </em>happen — until he caught a glimpse through the window set into the office door. As one of the tapes spooled away from his player for the nth time, Jon fiddled with a familiar pocketknife. Flipped it open, shut, and open again mindlessly. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if a single pocketknife might have kept Tim safe. There was no chance he’d be able to break out on his own even if he had it with him. Logically, Leo knew that. </p><p> </p><p>Unless it could have made a difference. Unless it would be enough. Unless. </p><p> </p><p>Leo let Daisy give the report.</p><p> </p><p>Even if the stakeout the day before had amounted to nothing, Leo returned to Tim’s house with Martin that night feeling like they’d somehow accomplished even less. Searching for ties between weddings and circuses took them nowhere. <em> Nothing </em>in the recording Nikola sent sounded like a clue. None of it had any added weight, none of it sounded off. It was nothing more than conversation and interrogation. </p><p> </p><p>Leo wasn’t sure how long he sat in the kitchen, rolling Tim’s ring between his fingers and watching how it caught the light. With this much time to think, it was easy to trace back everything that had gone wrong in the past few days alone to the source. One choice, and everyone paid for it. Cause and effect. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s on your mind?” </p><p> </p><p>Leo just barely managed to keep himself from jumping at Martin’s voice. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You looked like you were concentrating,” Martin explained as he crossed around where Leo sat to set his mug in the sink. </p><p> </p><p>No kaleidoscope colors blocked his thoughts, not this time. “I never should have left.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin jolted upright. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t…” Martin gaped at him a moment. Even with how round his eyes went, there was no missing the heavy bags under them. “I don’t think Tim would agree with that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Leo snapped. “Because I left.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not like— like you just asked to trade places or something, Leo.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t have to ask. It’s what happened.” Leo twined the ring again; his stolen keepsake for a stolen life. “He probably knows that, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin shifted his weight. He still looked like a trapdoor had just opened under him. “Do you really think he’s going to <em> blame </em>you for all this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wh— He wouldn’t, I know that, I just—”</p><p> </p><p>“You just think he <em> should.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo sighed. “Shouldn’t he?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Um, no?” Martin paused. “Do you blame <em> him </em>for you getting taken the first time?”</p><p> </p><p>At last, Leo jerked up to look Martin in the face. “What? No, of course not.” </p><p> </p><p>“So on what planet does him blaming you for this make sense?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because he has it a lot worse than I did right now!” </p><p> </p><p>Another slow, incredulous blink. <em> “How?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“It was— It was a lot different, for me. I would have been <em> fine </em>if I didn’t do any of this!”</p><p> </p><p>Martin took a slow breath. “Well, if you hadn’t left, Jon would still be there. You let us know he was there, and we got him out. That’s a good thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“Someone else would’ve come for him eventually,” Leo argued. “Someone Elias sent, or whatever the Distortion was before Helen. It wouldn’t have known we needed the exit during the whole escape unless it was already watching.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, well…” Martin’s head lowered as he thought, leaned against the counter. “Leo, before you showed up, Tim was— He was in a really bad place. You know he’s a little different now and all, but before he got you back, he—”</p><p> </p><p>“He was depressed?” Leo nearly laughed. “Is that <em> really </em> worse than where he is now? It’s better than being <em> kidnapped </em> and <em> held </em>by them! Christ knows how bad he’s hurt, Martin!” </p><p> </p><p>“So why do you think he wouldn’t say the same thing about you? You were also held by them, same as he is now!” </p><p> </p><p>Fire crawled under Leo’s skin as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’re not listening, it’s not the same thing! It was a hell of a lot different for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, alright, but you still got hurt.” Martin’s shoulders squared. “And you don’t have to— to <em> earn </em> being safe! You’re talking like your own life has to be worth the price, but it <em> doesn’t. </em>It has value on its own.” </p><p> </p><p><span>No holding back his laughter, not this time.</span> “I’ve been weighing the value of my own life for a long time, and I’ve <em> never </em> felt the need to justify whatever price it took. Being here rather than there just means it’s <em> him </em>paying for it rather than a lucky volunteer.” Each word tasted like the cloying too-sweetness of rot.</p><p> </p><p>Still, still Martin shook his head. “You weren’t <em> living, </em> Leo. You were <em> surviving, </em>and you paid for it just as much yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, silly me.” Scorn dripped from Leo’s voice. “I must have forgotten all those times I was murdered onstage to entertain a crowd.” </p><p> </p><p>“You know that’s not all there is to it. Being there hurt you every minute, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“You all act it was some nonstop torture session!” Leo burst as he threw his hands in the air. “None of you get it. It was <em> more </em> than that. There was so much that happened that was fun, or satisfying, or <em> exciting, </em>and I can’t say any of that because you’ve all already decided that it all just— just me getting flogged twenty-four seven!”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s lips went pale as he pressed them together. “Personally I think <em> any </em>hypothetical flogging or torture would outweigh all that, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Lucky you.”</p><p> </p><p>There was silence as Leo watched Martin realize how far they stood from the hypothetical. Realize or remember, anyway. Leo didn’t care which. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo, you need to understand that—”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you <em> stop </em>patronizing me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I’m sorry.” Even with the apology, Martin didn’t back down. “Can <em> you </em>stop acting like any of the things they did to you, or made you do, were acceptable?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s head tipped back as he sighed. <em> “What </em>are you talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know everything that happened to you while you were there, or everything they made you do, or any of that. I know that the things I <em> do </em>know about probably aren’t the worst of it.” That sorrowful look he always had when they talked about this made its usual appearance, but stubbornness overshadowed it. “If they did any of that to Tim, would you be okay with it if it meant they kept Tim alive?”</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously not.” Memories teased at the edges of his thoughts, eager to replace his own face with Tim’s. Anger kept them at bay.</p><p> </p><p>“How is it different?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because he’s not a part of the troupe!”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Neither were you.”</p><p> </p><p>“...What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You weren’t always a part of the troupe, Leo.” His voice softened. “And you wouldn’t have joined unless they were already hurting you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t—” There was a reason he didn’t think about his early days there. How long? A month? More? </p><p> </p><p>Sugar-sweet nausea twisted his stomach, and one hand flew up to cover his mouth as the other arm wrapped tight around his chest. He didn’t want to remember. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Breathing through his nose alone felt like slow dancing with suffocation, but if he uncovered his mouth, he didn’t know if he would sob, be sick, or both. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”</p><p> </p><p>He paid no mind to the other man’s stammers beyond the need to get away. A hand brushed his arm and he flinched hard, back landing against the wall. In a clumsy, shuddering motion he slid down it to curl his legs up to his chest. His arms remained locked where they were; one hand pressed against his mouth, the other digging into his ribs. </p><p> </p><p>Another touch, now to his shoulder. Another flinch. Nothing more. His words meant nothing to them. Whatever came next would come. He could only wait.</p><p> </p><p>No telling how long it was before he caught a sound. Soft, rhythmic clicks. No way to identify it without sight. No opening his eyes. Just the sound. </p><p> </p><p>Tempo. Not musical, but tempo all the same. Organic, not measured. His racing heart slowed to match it. The muscles in his arms ached as, bit by bit, they began to relax. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes cracked. It was dark in this room, but the light that came in through the door was enough for the man next to him to keep doing… whatever he was doing. Sat next to him, leaned against the wall. The clicks kept their rhythm as the man worked two slender wooden needles against each other, with indigo yarn twined in and around them, looped through his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take long for the other man to realize he had an audience. </p><p> </p><p>“How’re you feeling?” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t reply. The other man kept knitting. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m making a blanket right now. I thought about making a sweater, or a cardigan? But then that’d be a lot of measuring and fitting pieces together and all, and I wanted to work on something simple.” </p><p> </p><p>Quiet clicks continued, with a brief pause as the man worked apart a knot. </p><p> </p><p>“The yarn’s really soft. That’s why I picked this one — cozy, y’know?” Another loop, a twist. Hard to follow when he didn’t know anything about knitting, but the other man — <em> Martin, </em>yes — never faltered. </p><p> </p><p>Martin nudged the bit of the blanket he’d finished so far towards him. “Want to feel it?” </p><p> </p><p>Nod. The hand that’d pressed over his mouth before was twisted into his shirt now, but with a bit of effort he worked his stiff fingers free of the fabric. </p><p> </p><p>As promised, it was incredibly soft. Rows of twined loops marched up and down to form gentle hills in the knit. Near the beginning lay a row of a light cream color, lined with small openings where the colors switched. </p><p> </p><p>“I like having little bits of other colors,” Martin explained as the man’s fingers brushed along the gaps there. “So I’m going to have a border of that color on the other end, too. I might put some in the middle, but I haven’t decided yet.” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t look up at Martin’s face beyond brief glances out of the corner of his eye, but Martin stayed focused on the task at hand. Not staring. Not watching. Not expecting. </p><p> </p><p>“And…” Martin’s hesitation made the man want to pull back again, nervous, but Martin continued before he could decide either way. “And I’m sorry for pushing too hard. We don’t need to talk more about it right now, but I wanted to say so before we went to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. Loose, one-shouldered. Words <em> weren’t </em>right now. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to try and get some sleep? I know you didn’t get any last night. Or the night before, really.” </p><p> </p><p>With no words in him, he could only mouth, <em> Sorry. </em></p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s— it’s okay, I just thought you’d be tired.” Martin paused in his work. “It’s been a long day already, and if it were me, getting upset like before would wear me out. Trying to sleep might be a good idea.” </p><p> </p><p>He knew why he’d avoided it before, and his reasons were no less true now. </p><p> </p><p><em> G-d, </em>he was tired, though. After a long moment he gave a jerky nod. His legs felt numb — how long had he been curled up like that? — but with nothing beyond a brief stumble, he got to his feet. Martin stayed at his side, but didn’t touch. Only when he sat on his bed did Martin bid him a soft, “Good night, Leo,” and closed the door behind him. </p><p> </p><p>He expected to toss and turn, but in moments sleep came over him. He didn’t dream.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>As far as the benefits of sleep went, Martin got <em> I told you so </em>rights without question. They were at the Institute for mere minutes before a sudden thought sent Leo bursting into Jon’s office.</p><p> </p><p>“She wasn’t a harlequin!” </p><p> </p><p>Jon stared owlishly at Leo. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“The— the one Nikola mentioned!” He paced in front of Jon’s desk. “I don’t know what it means as a clue, but a harlequin, those’re pantomimers. Different role entirely.” </p><p> </p><p>“Could it have just been referencing the circus in general? I thought harlequin was a rather broad term.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no no. I mean, if you’re not <em> there </em>it’s kind of broad, I guess, but she was a contortionist, and that’s nothing like what harlequins do—”</p><p> </p><p>“—And because your role name is so crucial there, Nikola wouldn’t misuse them!” Jon finished.</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly!” He stilled as best he could with all the energy buzzing through him. “Like I said: I don’t know what it means, but it <em> has </em>to mean something.”</p><p> </p><p>With frantic hands Jon snapped up the tape player once more and jabbed the fast-forward button.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “—could be a whole harlequin’s wedding!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon gave a thoughtful tug on his lower lip. “Harlequin’s wedding…”</p><p> </p><p>“Does that mean anything to you?”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, but his eyes were bright. “No, but… It feels like the place to start. Come on, we need to tell the others.”</p><p> </p><p>No amount of sleep would turn Leo into a researcher. He took his pacing a little further between the archive shelves to keep from making the rest of them nervous, but stayed close enough that, when Melanie called out that she might have found something, he heard with no trouble. </p><p> </p><p>Once the others gathered around — all but Martin, out to get some lunch for them all — Melanie launched into an explanation. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, Joseph Grimaldi, he’s a part of this whole <em> thing, </em>right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Leo didn’t know much about the specific ties between him and Nikola beyond that they were without a doubt unpleasant for the man. “How’s he related here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, his first major role was in a show called, um…” She squinted at her laptop screen again. <em> “The Triumph of Mirth, </em> but it’s <em> also </em> known as <em> Harlequin’s Wedding! </em>The theatre’s called Sadler’s Wells; apparently it was his home theatre for a while when he was a kid. It’s still operational and everything. Not even that far from here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s make a <em> plan.” </em> </p><p> </p><p>Leo scowled at Basira. “We were too late last time. I’m not doing that again.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if we don’t know what we <em> are </em>doing this time, we’ll lose our chance anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>“Leo and I can go now,” Daisy said. “Keep watch. We see a chance, we take it, but otherwise we’ll stay put.”</p><p> </p><p>During their stakeouts, he and Daisy had barely spoken. He wasn’t going to call her a friend. She only just passed the bar to be considered an acquaintance. Despite that, he could still appreciate the places they understood each other.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie made a surprised noise from her desk. “I just went to check the address, but apparently the whole street view thing goes… inside the building?” </p><p> </p><p>“Huh.” Basira leaned over to watch. “Cool. We’ll look through to get a feel for the place, and keep you two updated.”</p><p> </p><p>“Roger.” With Leo close on her heels, Daisy left. </p><p> </p><p>Their watch was no more thrilling than the previous silent days in Daisy’s car, but today came with an important caveat: they had a chance to <em> do </em>something. Finally.</p><p> </p><p>Was Tim inside now? Where? Was he hurt? How badly? Who was with him? <em> What </em>was with him? </p><p> </p><p>When Daisy’s hand latched tight around his wrist, Leo froze, then shot her a glare. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You were about to get out of the car.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, I wasn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you were. Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>He could play the back-and-forth yes-against-no game for a long damn time. Remembering that stamina came from his very important role as the irritating little brother took the wind from his sails in an instant. </p><p> </p><p>The tinny song that chirped from Daisy’s phone sparked some fresh energy, if only because he couldn’t keep from commenting on it.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that Christina Aguilera?”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy didn’t reply as she returned his previous glare with her own — one that was starting to lose its teeth, frankly. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she said into the phone, still glaring. “Yeah, nothing here. Delivery showed up, but it wasn’t the two Cockney guys.”</p><p> </p><p>“The couriers,” Leo supplied.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever.” She waved a dismissive hand at him and nodded along to whatever Basira — he assumed — said. “Sure. ...Got it. ETA? ...Mm. See you in ten.”</p><p> </p><p>Before Leo could even ask, Daisy passed along the update. “Basira and Jon are headed our way. Martin and Melanie are going to poke around some other taxidermy shop, make it look like they’re hunting for that skin.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good.” Not really. Leo hated that they had to wait this much longer, but he made this long. He could hold out another ten minutes.</p><p> </p><p>He’d just have to hope Tim could, too.</p><p> </p><p>The day had already crept by at a snail’s pace. Rather than reassure him that the end was in sight, a proper time frame only made Leo antsy. Judging by Daisy’s growl of, “Cut it out,” when his knee’s bouncing hit the four-minute mark, her thin patience was near its breaking point.</p><p> </p><p>Before Leo could reply with some growl of his own, the others arrived. It was for the best — they couldn’t afford to waste energy on a row. Not now. Not here. </p><p> </p><p>Leo was out of the car before Basira finished parking. He could feel all his impatience coming to a head. This was it. This was it. Tim was here, and they needed to <em> move.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“There’s an emergency exit in the back, not alarmed from what I could see,” Basira said without preamble. “The inside view we found didn’t go backstage at all, but there was a set of stairs going down not too far from that exit — looked like it’d be a good place to start. It’s not like we know where they’ll be camped out.”</p><p> </p><p>The elaboration came as they made their way to the building itself. Midafternoon on a Tuesday meant there wasn’t much in the way of foot traffic, but through the theatre’s large windows Leo could see no shortage of life. </p><p> </p><p>He glanced back over to the others. “Seems like there’s a good amount of people around.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon nodded. “It’s a contemporary dance house more than a conventional theatre these days, but I imagine that means little to Nikola if she wanted to play on that return to roots. There must be some kind of class in session.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it.” They’d just have to work around that. “Like Daisy said, we didn’t see much, so I don’t know any better than you all where he’ll be. Backstage or a green room would be my guess.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mhm. Door’s this way,” Basira replied as they slipped into an alley. <span>Jon sent an obvious cautionary glance over his shoulder, and Leo nudged the opposite arm.</span></p><p> </p><p>“If you act like you’re waiting to be caught, you’ll be what <em> gets </em>us caught.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s head jerked around to face forward so quickly Leo almost laughed. “Right. Right, of course. I just—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut it,” Daisy cut in. “You going to be this chatty inside?”</p><p> </p><p>Though Jon sent her a dry look, he didn’t reply. Didn’t want to prove her right, Leo supposed. </p><p> </p><p>As promised, there was no alarm with the door despite its label claiming otherwise. Maybe a faulty old one had yet to be replaced. Maybe it’d never had one at all. Not like it mattered. </p><p> </p><p>They came into a very small theatre, able to seat a hundred-fifty at most from Leo’s guess. Some side practice room maybe, or for smaller shows. <em>Pointless</em> shows. What reason was there to perform without any kind of substantial audience? </p><p> </p><p>Leo knew that was his time with the troupe talking. He found it hard to care. </p><p> </p><p>“Stairs are this way,” Basira murmured. She kept her steps light, though didn’t make some play at stealth. Tiptoeing was a lot less easy to explain than simply being quiet. “There’s no actual shows going on today, and from what we could find rehearsals don’t start until later in the evening. Backstage areas should be pretty clear.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo nearly argued that this troupe would be there regardless. It took a moment to remember that in conventional troupes, the players <em> left </em>when they weren’t performing or rehearsing. Right. </p><p> </p><p>They’d only just started down the narrow staircase Basira led them to when a polite voice called out, “Um, excuse me! I’m sorry, but visitors aren’t—”</p><p> </p><p>Leo turned on a dime with a winning smile and a minute gesture for the others to keep moving. The woman who’d come over began to lean around as if to catch another glimpse, so quietly at his side, Leo snapped. </p><p> </p><p>Wide-eyed, she focused on him alone. “I’m sorry, sir, but the lower levels are off-limits to visitors. Your friends—”</p><p> </p><p>“Friends?” Leo schooled his face into polite confusion. “I’m by myself, ma’am. I haven’t been here before, so I think I got mixed up. Sorry for the trouble!” he added with just the right amount of self-deprecation. He held out one hand with a smile. “Leo James.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman returned both gestures. “Samera Jordan.” Mild uncertainty lingered on her face, but she didn’t argue. It wouldn’t take much from him before she forgot the others were ever there. “Is there something I could help you find?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you happen to know where I could find a supernatural circus and their current kidnapee? They’ll be mostly mannequins, stuffed beings with skin costumes, and a few of the more biological sort, such as myself! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He took a few slow steps into the hall, and thankfully the woman caught on to his unspoken request to walk and talk with no trouble. Some distance between them and the direction the others went would be wise. </p><p> </p><p>“I moved to the area recently, and I’ve always been interested in dance.” Both true. The last minute alone proved he had no moral qualm about lying, but even with his skill, it was always best to ground falsehoods in truth where he could. Made things easier for them both. “What can you tell me about the theatre?”</p><p> </p><p>The woman lit up at his question. Visitors who cared about the building’s history must be rare. Not that he was one of them, of course, but if nodding along and asking just the right questions to send her on another tangent meant the others would have enough time to get Tim, he’d do so all day.</p><p> </p><p>Christ, he hoped it wouldn’t be that long, though. Straining his ears to see if he could hear anything from below was an exercise in futility, no doubt, but he couldn’t help himself. Had they found anything yet? Was Nikola here? The contortionist? Tim? Anyone?</p><p> </p><p>After what felt like a small eternity, movement came from the door he’d carefully led the woman away from. She noticed him glance at something behind her, but before she could turn to see what, Leo tossed out another question. </p><p> </p><p>“The architecture here is beautiful.” He assumed, anyway. The small theatre and side hall left little to go on. It looked big enough from the outside that the central parts of the building must have more grace to them. “Do you know who designed the building?” </p><p> </p><p>The woman shifted and made some noncommittal comment about rebuilding efforts before launching back into the timeline of the place’s multitude of false starts. </p><p> </p><p>Again, movement from the door. Daisy. She caught Leo’s eye as the woman prattled on about some Irish woman, and when she shook her head, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Too slow. Too slow. Tim wasn’t here and they were too fucking <em> slow.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Leo made a show of slapping his pockets even as numb dread crept over him. “Oh, hell, I don’t have my phone with me. Do you know what time it is?”</p><p> </p><p>Caught off-guard by the interruption, the woman checked her watch. “Um, 1:30-ish.”</p><p> </p><p>“Crap, I have to get going.” He shot her an apologetic smile. “Thanks for being so patient with all my questions. I know you must have plenty to do, so I really appreciate it.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiled back. “It was no trouble at all. Like I said, all our classes are listed on the Sadler’s Wells site, so if you—”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it, thanks!” He took a few backwards steps to wave one last time. “Gotta run, but I’m sure you’ll see me around here again.” </p><p> </p><p>The signs posted around directed him to the front of the building without trouble, though he paid little attention to the exact route. Muted sunlight made no dent in the haze between him and everything around him. Just another set. Just another stage.</p><p> </p><p>He could tell when he made it to the car park that the others had yet to start talking about their next step. Waiting for him, probably. He didn’t have it in him to appreciate the thought. </p><p> </p><p>“What did you find?” Leo asked with a voice as dull as the clouds overhead. </p><p> </p><p>Jon held up another tape, this time scrawled with the words <em> Round 3!! </em>and a smiley face. “This, and a few taxidermy creatures.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did they move?”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy huffed a laugh. “Not for long.”</p><p> </p><p>“This one was fastened to the neck of a… fox?” Basira added.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy shook her head. “Coyote.” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought it was a wolf,” Jon argued with a furrowed brow. </p><p> </p><p>Christ, Leo wished they would shut up. “But Tim wasn’t there.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Jon’s hand tightened on the grip of his cane. “Though I did find this.” He dug in his pocket a moment, then pulled out a snapped hair elastic. A few dark strands still clung to it. “Assuming it’s his, it’s a sign that he <em> was </em>here, and recently enough that this wasn’t swept up. We’re on the right track.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s his,” Leo confirmed. It could be a coincidence, he supposed. Tim wasn’t the only person in the world with long black hair. Regardless, Leo knew the red band Jon held was Tim’s.</p><p> </p><p>Tim had been there. Was he there when Leo and Daisy arrived? Was he waiting for them? Was he alone? Were others with him? Could Leo and Daisy have gotten him out if they went right in, without spending their whole day staring at a building and giving their tacit approval to whatever happened in its walls with their inaction?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe Martin was right, and Tim’s initial capture wasn’t quite as much Leo’s fault as it felt. Every minute Leo failed to free him, though? That blame was squarely his. </p><p> </p><p>His melancholy thoughts carried him until they reached the Institute once more. One of the others must have gotten in touch with Melanie and Martin, as when Leo’s group came into the archives, both were waiting. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wasted no time. “We have another tape.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shocker,” Melanie replied. Leo dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping at her. </p><p> </p><p>They fell into the same position they had with the first tape, circled around one of the assistant desks while Jon controlled the recorder. </p><p> </p><p>As always, Nikola’s harsh cheer made Leo go stiff. Martin came close to his side, and didn’t touch. Half of Leo wanted to tell him to piss off. The other half appreciated the gesture. He could only be thankful that circumstance meant he couldn’t speak or risk missing some of the recording, and didn’t have to work out which of the two feelings was correct.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hello, my loves! So very sorry to have missed you — I’m sure you must be heartbroken!” </em> The cheer in her laugh grated on Leo’s ears. <em> “If you ever pick up the pace, I’ll have a </em> royal <em> welcome ready and waiting.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Leo saw Jon and Basira each make a note. Daisy’s eyes were narrow. </p><p> </p><p><em> “I’ll even be sure to roll out the </em> red carpet <em> and everything!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Another couple notes. A traded look of confusion. </p><p> </p><p><em> “We’re making a real </em> sport <em> of all this, aren’t we?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Notes, bafflement.</p><p> </p><p><em> “But as I’m sure you’re waiting for, let’s take a peek in our little behind-the-scenes zone.” </em> A rustling noise. <em> “Say hello to your </em> <em> friends!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m good.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh, so rude! Elias — can I call you Elias? — you need to put a little more effort into making sure your belongings are well behaved. I would be glad to send you some tips!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Not a belonging, thanks.” </em>There was no fire to Tim’s voice. The same stubbornness, the same hellbent need to keep who he was, but no heat to fuel it. </p><p> </p><p>The recording stuttered with a sharp crack, and Leo hugged his arms to his chest. </p><p> </p><p><em> “The first step is not letting them talk back to you. Based on this one and your Archivist, you have a lot of work to do there! I swear, you must delight in sending your difficult cases to poor Nikola to fix.” </em> A staticky sigh. <em> “At least this one’s skin is in better condition! We’ve only had to do a little maintenance.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon paled. Leo’s arms tightened.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Now, my dear, would you like to tell me the ringmaster’s name yet?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A brief silence, then: <em> “You know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different </em> <em> result, right?” </em></p><p> </p><p>The responding thud was hard to catch past Nikola’s laugh. <em> “You’re the one answering the same way each time, and getting the same result because of it. I don’t mind enjoying myself as long as this takes!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Super.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That’s not a name!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Says you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A crack. <em> “A name, lovely, so we can proclaim it like a </em> Bollywood <em> star!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...You mean Hollywood?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whichever!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Basira made another note, but Jon was far too busy staring at the recorder in blank confusion to do the same. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Seriously, there’s no way you—” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A harsher sound than before sent the audio spinning into white noise. Leo’s heart stopped. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Question time is over,” </em> Nikola murmured. With the same slow, gentle poison, she continued, <em> “Your clue has been given, little Archivist, my ringmaster. Good luck.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>A soft click, and the recording ended. </p><p> </p><p>Jon lifted his page. “She emphasized… royal, red carpet, sport, and Bollywood.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or Hollywood,” Basira added. </p><p> </p><p>It was Melanie who summarized what Leo assumed they were all thinking.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell are we supposed to do with <em> that?” </em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>There was nowhere to stakeout this time. There was nothing Leo could do but wait. </p><p> </p><p>And wait. </p><p> </p><p>Leo was beginning to realize that he was not a very patient man. </p><p> </p><p>As he paced, the endless feeling of being watched bowed his shoulders until he could scream with it. He already hated the Institute, and now that hatred doubled on itself with every hour that passed. </p><p> </p><p>The only relief he could think of was to duck into the tunnels for a bit, just to get a damn breather. He told Martin he’d stay near the trapdoor and to knock if they found anything, then dropped down below.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as the slate-grey stone closed around him, a weight lifted from the back of his neck. It was almost funny how much these tunnels reminded him of his old favorite urbex haunts. The tunnels were no ghost building, of course. They were, in their own way, more alive than any other structure he’d ever seen. A discarded cocoon of the Institute’s previous life, maybe, but with no less a life of their own because of it. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take long for his thoughts to turn to Helen, not when this was the last place they’d spoken. Maybe if he knocked like he did before, she’d answer. </p><p> </p><p>Torchlight flashed in false colors. Smooth stone turned rough. Abrasive. No familiar creaks. </p><p> </p><p>Leo pulled harder, humming under his breath that same old tune. Music hazed in the air and plucked each falsehood around him like harp strings. Like a lyre. Tim could make a joke out of that, no doubt — liar, lyre. He was always better at wordplay. </p><p> </p><p>Still nothing. Leo let out a sigh, then called, “Helen?” </p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps.” From behind him, the groan of old wood. “You could have begun with that.” </p><p> </p><p>He turned. “You liked my knocking last time.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no smile on her shifting face. “That was before your knocking turned to shattering.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s… that’s why I wanted to talk.” Martin had made this seem so easy. “I’m sorry. For what I did to your mirrors, I mean. It wasn’t intentional.” </p><p> </p><p>“Imagine, ringmaster, if I asked for your help when off on some harebrained scheme of my own.” One of Helen’s long nails tapped against her chin. “Imagine I needed you to come and carry me out of some danger, and you obliged. You came and swept me up on your back, but as soon as you did…” </p><p> </p><p>She uncoiled her arms to reach out one sharp hand, fingers twining in and around each other. “I grabbed onto every single bone in your fragile body—” With a harsh twist of her hand, she finished, “And turned them to splinters.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean—”</p><p> </p><p>“But you <em> did."</em> At last, she smiled. It brought no reassurance. “They aren’t all repaired yet. You’re a very thorough man. And a <em> loud </em>one.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m s—”</p><p> </p><p>“You can try this little apology again, ringmaster, when I’m finished cleaning up the damage you did.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo couldn’t help the heat that came into his voice. “I was a bit<em> upset, </em>Helen. I think that’s reasonable.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” The colors in her eyes spun faster as she continued. “And am I allowed to be <em>a bit upset</em> at your <em> reasonable </em>casualties?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Delighted to know I have permission.” Her grin vanished like the snapping of a bear trap. “Leave, ringmaster. It isn’t time, yet.”</p><p> </p><p>The door shut. Leo could do nothing but return to the weight of the watching Eye once more. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>With as much as he hated feeling watched, Leo wasn’t sure returning to the Institute in the middle of the night was his most reasonable decision, but the addition of another tape meant yet another loop of anxiety-fueled questions to keep him awake. He’d just pop over to ensure they were still there, still undamaged, then he’d return to Tim’s house. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe he’d listen through them again while he was at it. There might be things he missed. Clues. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t pop out as close to the Institute as he would have liked — must know the streets too well by now. A pain, no doubt, but at least the walk was quick. </p><p> </p><p>When he came down the stairs to see light already spilling from the archives, he paused. Who else would be here in the middle of the night? The cleaning staff that he’d worried might accidentally bin the tapes? Elias, for some reason? Some Nikola-sent saboteur? </p><p> </p><p>There was no sign of life inside, not until Leo caught a slight bit of movement through the window to Jon’s office. </p><p> </p><p>He sighed, tension draining from his shoulders, and knocked. With some faint humor, he watched as Jon yelped and almost threw the pocketknife he held with his fumbling — closed, thankfully. He locked onto the door with a classic deer-in-headlights expression, then recovered enough to wave Leo in.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Leo said by way of greeting.</p><p> </p><p>“Considering the hour, I don’t think you had any option <em> but </em>to startle me.” Jon scooped up Tim’s knife from the floor. “I needed the wake-up.”</p><p> </p><p>Nikola’s voice made for unpleasant background noise, though it came as no surprise. Looked like he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep with so many unknowns. </p><p> </p><p>They listened in silence for a long while, and when it came to a close, Jon rewound back to the beginning and started again. The intent look on his face never wavered. Leo could only wonder how many times he’d already listened, desperate to find that one word or phrase or <em> something </em>they needed. </p><p> </p><p>When Jon spoke at last, his voice was soft enough that Leo only just caught it past tittering laughter. “What do you think’s happened to him by now?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t look up from his folded arms. “I’m trying not to think about it.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Trying and failing, </em>he did not say. He knew Jon understood all the same. </p><p> </p><p>At least the batteries in Tim's hearing aids were made to last for a long while — around ten days if he remembered correctly, and he changed them the day before they went to Great Yarmouth. As bad as things were now, Leo didn't want to know how much worse they might get if Tim lost the ability to hear anything Nikola said, question or otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>After yet another listen, Leo leaned forward and covered the rewind button with a hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you slept at all?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon tugged on his cardigan sleeves. “Have <em> you?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I will if you do.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Fine. You can head home. I’ll just listen through once more, then—”</p><p> </p><p>“You can listen once more tomorrow.” Leo didn’t let go of the player. “Look, just a few hours, alright? You’ll be better at finding what’s next if you do.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon gave a breathy, humorless laugh. “You sound like Martin.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m just repeating what he said to me. It’s not like <em> I’m </em>the one chock-full of good advice.”</p><p> </p><p>His next laugh was almost genuine. “There’s still a cot around, I’ll get a few hours of rest there. Does that satisfy?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care where you sleep,” Leo answered. “So long as it happens.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right.” In a slow motion that made Leo’s joints ache just to watch, Jon braced against his cane and pulled himself up to stand.</p><p> </p><p>Only when a tap on the shoulder almost made him jump out of his skin did Leo realize he was staring at the recorder, blank.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” He got to his own feet and followed Jon into the archive proper. </p><p> </p><p>Jon glanced at him as they walked further through the shelves. “What’s on your mind?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just… thinking about what we don’t hear.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like you said before, I’m trying not to,” Jon sighed “But it’s difficult.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” To Leo, it was more than Tim’s own situation. That occupied the vast majority of his thoughts without a doubt, but he couldn’t help wondering about the contortionist as well. Part of him wished she’d make her own appearance on a tape. At least then, he would know she was alright. </p><p> </p><p>The only reason that would happen was if Nikola caught her helping Tim overtly enough she couldn’t explain it away. If she did appear on one, it wouldn’t be for anything good. </p><p> </p><p>Leo knew her better than anyone. She’d keep her aid subtle as always. She had to. Her safety was important; he could only hope she’d remember that even as she kept Tim safe, too. </p><p> </p><p>Jon snagged his wandering mind with a question. “If you’re also going to sleep here, I <em> think </em>there’s another cot...?” He held out a bundle of neat, rose-pink yarn. “Here’s the second blanket, and the cot must be—”</p><p> </p><p>Before Jon could finish, Leo put up his hand in rejection. “It’s fine. I was just going to go back to Tim’s. If I’m not there when Martin gets up, he’ll probably worry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very true.” With a weary attempt to smile, Jon bid him goodnight. Leo wasn’t about to hover and wait until he fell asleep before leaving, so he could only hope Jon kept up his end of the bargain.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe his hope was unfair, considering Leo didn’t keep up his own. It wasn’t for lack of trying. </p><p> </p><p>Unknowns never used to bother him this much. Before, they were the very thing he lived on. Everything was colorspin and spaceshift and marvelous, then. The loopholes of reality were no more than a game.</p><p> </p><p>He was playing the very same game now. It was far less pleasant on the losing side.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>  </p><p>  </p><p>It was Basira who put it together. Leo tried to go back to the old project of statement preservation for all of ten minutes before his patience ran out, and was about to knock around for something else to distract him when she sat bolt upright in her chair.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my g-d, Madame Tussauds.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin blinked at her. “What?” Leo could only stare.</p><p> </p><p>“She said— Hold on.” Basira paused to type something, so Martin took the opportunity to pull Jon from his office. Leo bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, impatient and restless.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, look!” Excitement crept into Basira’s voice. “Look, there’s a section for the royal family, one for celebrities — so, the red carpet thing, one for sports. There’s even a Bollywood section. She said all that to trip us up since it’s so all over the place, but everything’s connected.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon peered over her shoulder as his brows inched upwards. “Wait, scroll down— Yes, there: ‘behind-the-scenes zone’, too. I thought that was odd phrasing when she said it, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go.” Leo got no more than halfway to the door before Basira stopped him without a trace of her previous excitement.</p><p> </p><p>“We have to make a <em> plan. </em>This place is a hell of a lot bigger than Sadler’s Wells, and—”</p><p> </p><p>He whipped around to face her with no attempt to hide his frustration. “Basira, we’ve been late to save him <em> every </em>time! I’m not going to—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going at all.”</p><p> </p><p>He must have misheard. There was no chance in hell she said what he thought she did. She had to know better than that. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re part of the decoy team this time.” Basira didn’t falter.</p><p> </p><p>“If you think I’m not coming with you to save my brother, you’ve lost your g-ddamn mind.” </p><p> </p><p>“That part is just as important in saving him. If Nikola realizes that other skin’s been destroyed, she has no reason to keep Tim alive. She’ll kill him, and then she’ll have something she can use to kick off the Unknowing, which is <em> still </em>something we need to keep in mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s hands balled into fists. “It’s happening either way! We need to focus on the thing we can <em> actually </em>change.” </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “We can change both.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, we can’t!” Something snapped in Leo’s chest. “Stopping the Unknowing is impossible — how the hell do <em> none </em> of you get that? It <em> will </em> happen <em> . </em>None of you can stop it, so stop wasting your fucking time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Leo—” </p><p> </p><p>Before Martin could say more than the name, Leo whirled on him. “That’s how it works with her, okay? She wants something, she gets it! That’s it!” </p><p> </p><p>He was well acclimated to her whims. She took everything and everyone she wanted. She moved them all as she wished. She built them and broke them. End of story. </p><p> </p><p>“Then why should we bother saving Tim?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo stiffened. “What?” In his periphery, he saw Jon and Martin were just as stunned. </p><p> </p><p>Unmoved, Basira repeated the question. “Explain it to me: why should we bother saving Tim? The world will end anyway, if you’re right, and damn soon. Whatever state he’s in now, after the Unknowing will be worse. Wouldn’t freeing him for a couple weeks be crueler if everything is doomed anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>Leo gaped at her. “I— No, that’s still— We don’t know for sure what it’ll be like after, so—”</p><p> </p><p>“You do think it can be stopped,” Basira said over his sputtering. “But your head’s still convinced you’re not allowed to think that. That’s fine. We’ll stop it either way, but we <em> will </em> stop it, Leo. We will. And after that, you and Tim can do whatever you want in a world that’s not all Stranger-ed, but I <em> need </em>you to work with me until then.”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know where to even <em> begin </em>processing all that, but managed to scrounge up a single nod regardless.</p><p> </p><p>Did he believe it could be stopped? The mere thought was laughable, of course it was. Nikola got what she wanted. That was the way of things.</p><p> </p><p>And yet.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>Working with Basira meant, apparently, going to wander a handful of charity shops with Melanie. Very few had anything in the way of taxidermy, to no surprise, but London itself wasn’t overflowing with places dedicated to taxidermy alone. Their pretend hunt made do. </p><p> </p><p>When Basira had explained the logic behind sending Leo off somewhere else rather than to Madame Tussauds, he understood her point — rather begrudgingly, but he did. If the team going after Tim again contained both Jon and Leo, their two players on the supernatural field, it’d be a glaring sign that they weren’t looking for the skin Nikola wanted with any diligence. She might be able to extrapolate from there that the thing no longer existed. </p><p> </p><p>So here Leo was, asking uncomfortable staff what skin they sold for the thousandth time. Melanie, at least, thought his phrasing was hilarious. He hadn’t thought twice the first time. Now, watching employees squirm or openly stare was the only thing that came close to distracting him from the mission he would give anything to be on. </p><p> </p><p>At his tense request, Melanie kept in frequent touch with the others. Nothing so far. </p><p> </p><p>Leo and Melanie, on the other hand, got some truly hideous mugs. Fifty pence each. Lucky them. </p><p> </p><p>When Melanie cleared her throat as they gave a cursory look over old, creaky furniture, Leo prayed it was with news. </p><p> </p><p>“So. Um.” </p><p> </p><p>Not news. Uncomfortable conversation. Joy of joys. </p><p> </p><p>“After the, um. The whole thing after we listened to the first tape? Jon and Basira explained, uh—” </p><p> </p><p>“All the horrible trauma, sure.” Even he couldn’t tell how much of his blasé tone was fabricated. “What about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to— apologize? For being, y’know… insensitive.” She sounded pained.</p><p> </p><p>Leo looked up from the cracked leather couch in front of him to give a disbelieving shake of his head. “What is with you people and apologizing so much?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“Basira, Martin, Tim, you, all of you just <em> spout </em>them. All the time.” He turned to study a nearby rug. “I don’t care. It’s fine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well.” Melanie folded her arms, chin up. “Alright. I… take it back, then.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “There </em>we go.” Leo attempted to smile at her weak teasing. Losing effort with how agitated he was, but he gave it a shot. “Now you’re talking sense.” </p><p> </p><p>She rolled her eyes, but he caught a slight bit of tension loosening her shoulders. It must have been bothering her. No reason to, in his mind. The way he reacted to things was far from conventional, and with how little she knew about his history before the others explained, her not understanding was to be expected. Whatever. He’d replied like a dick anyway, just dumping a pile of his trauma on her. They could both take some fault for that one. </p><p> </p><p>Forcing himself to stick to that line of thinking for longer than a couple minutes took some formidable effort, but he was up to the challenge if it meant thinking about anything besides waxworks and Tim and taxidermy and the mission and Nikola and the contortionist and how he wasn’t there he couldn’t help and Jon couldn’t quite see through Strangeness yet and what if they were all captured because Leo wasn’t there to see what they couldn’t and—</p><p> </p><p>And Melanie’s phone rang. She snapped it up in an instant, Leo watching with his heart in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>He knew what she would say as soon as she dropped eye contact. The conversation with whoever of the other team called didn’t take long after that. She hung up in moments.</p><p> </p><p>A sliver of mercy pushed Leo to say before Melanie had to. “He wasn’t there.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie nodded, worrying her lip. “They have another tape, so we should head back and listen with them.” </p><p> </p><p>His nails dragged through his hair as he attempted to keep his cool. Three tries already. Three, and Tim was <em> nowhere. </em></p><p> </p><p>Carousels were only fun, he knew, with the option to disembark. This cycle of <em> too late </em> s and <em> not enough </em> s around and around would stop at Nikola’s word alone. He had the scars to prove that, when a particular whirlwind caught her interest, she could hold her tongue a <em> very </em>long time. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go,” Leo ground out, and the carousel spun on. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p><em> “I have to admit, my loves,” </em> whined Nikola. <em> “I’m getting impatient! You’re so very slow, both with </em> your <em> dear Tim and </em> my <em> dear skin. I have to wonder if you even care!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon’s eyes were closed, forehead resting in one hand and shoulders drawn tight. Smudges of purple had taken permanent residence under Martin’s eyes. Even Basira and Daisy, despite their endurance and experience in this sort of thing, looked worn thin. </p><p> </p><p><em> “So, I thought we could add something new! Cross-country travel may be tricky for your lot, but I know my ringmaster has an easier time of it. I’ll even be extra-nice this time with my clue.” </em> She sighed. <em> “I don’t like giving out freebies, but you’re all rather bad at this!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Old, desperate shame for failing her wound around his throat. The urge to slam his head against the damn wall as many times as it took to knock out whatever bits of her still clung to the inside of his skull was almost overwhelming. </p><p> </p><p><em> “But first, your usual greetings, just so you all know what’s on the line! Considering your performance, though,” </em> Nikola said with a theatrical gasp, <em> “I think you might not care about poor Tim. Doesn’t that just break your heart?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Fuck off.” </em>He sounded exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Remember, we don’t talk like that around here! I thought you would have at least learned some manners by now.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe you’re just a miserable teacher.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Just like he had at the start, Leo wanted to shake Tim and tell him to shut up, shut up, shut up. Just nod. Give her everything and nothing with a nod and a smile, and it would be okay. </p><p> </p><p>A pop, just as he expected. Anticipation didn’t keep his stomach from twisting. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you very sure you don’t want to tell me the ringmaster’s name? You could earn something if you do!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A familiar system. Disobey, lose something. Voice. Sight. Food. Movement. Whatever. Obey, gain something. Maybe something lost. Maybe affection alone. </p><p> </p><p>The lines for what constituted each were far from stable. When Leo was there, sometimes things he’d assumed would lead to punishment left him unscathed. Others, he might not even realize he’d broken a rule before its consequences came for him. </p><p> </p><p>He almost wished Tim would just <em> say </em>it if it meant he could catch a break. The rest couldn’t shake that same old sick fear.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fantastic. His name is Secret Agent 0132306.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo shot the recorder a quizzical look. Was there some emphasis on the numbers, or had he misheard?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Now, that one’s not even a good lie.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “You got me.” </em> A pause. <em> “It’s Special Agent 0132—” </em> Something shifted, and Leo caught a choked gasp. <em> “3… 06.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon straightened in his chair, brows drawn and head cocked. The last three numbers in whatever string Tim had rattled off were strained, like something went tight around his throat, but still he’d forced them all out. They were important. A message? Or was he just trying to spite Nikola by saying the whole thing even as she attempted to stop him?</p><p> </p><p><em> “Shut up. You’re done now.” </em> There were another few short noises that Leo couldn’t quite parse before Nikola continued. <em> “Now, as I said: I’m being extra-nice with your clue today. I won’t even hide it! All of you are very stupid, so we’ll have to adjust.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tension built in Leo’s limbs as he waited, throat tight and impatient. They needed to go. They needed to move. They needed the next g-ddamn clue. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “My ringmaster should be able to handle the travel I mentioned just fine! The rest of you, well. I’m sure you could use the extra people to find the skin I need. Just two doesn’t seem like enough to me! It’s almost as if you aren’t trying very hard.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>So she <em> was </em>watching. She was watching, and their pantomime didn’t fool her for a second.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You wouldn’t want me to think you’ve given up, would you? I’m not even sure my planned replacement would work. He’s certainly not as powerful as the little Archivist. The poor thing just feels like death! He’s quite pretty, so he’d still be fun to wear, but killing him would be so very pointless. And painful — even excruciating! </em> I’m <em> just fine with that, but I thought his lovely friends wouldn’t be.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Get to the damn point,” Melanie hissed from next to Leo. </p><p> </p><p>As if Nikola heard, she continued right on cue. <em> “Now, my predecessor was much uglier than me. He couldn’t even dance until the very end, just sat at his stupid little table! Still, if we’ve paid respect to nostalgia for both my ringmaster and dear Joey, we should do my predecessor the same courtesy, don’t you think? I’ll be waiting for you where he made his entrance. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I bid you all the luck in the world — you certainly need it!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo didn’t wait for the tape to finish spooling out the final seconds of dead air. “Those numbers Tim said. What are they?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon looked over the short string he wrote out. “We’re looking for a location, and Nikola didn’t give us much to go on. Maybe it’s an address or… coordinates of some kind?”</p><p> </p><p>“It could be a phone number,” Martin said.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie’s head tipped. “Can phone numbers start with zero?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so.” Basira shook her head. “I’m not sure they’re coordinates, but…” </p><p> </p><p>Jon sighed. “Elias can’t pinpoint Tim with so much of the Stranger around, I think, but he might be able to narrow down whatever these actually mean. Maybe we should ask him.”</p><p> </p><p>“That would be wise.” </p><p> </p><p>All of them jumped at a new, sudden voice — the man himself, because he couldn’t come into a room without an appropriately dramatic entrance. </p><p> </p><p>He turned to Leo. “We should talk, Danny. Can you join me in my office?”</p><p> </p><p>When he’d asked Tim the same, Tim said no with a smile on his face. Leo didn’t have the energy for that no matter how much he’d like to. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” </p><p> </p><p>The others watched like he was off to greet his own firing squad. Maybe he was. He was far too preoccupied to care. </p><p> </p><p>It was silent until they got to the office, though Elias looked unbothered. He took a seat at his desk, then gestured to a chair across from it. “Please, sit.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm good.” </p><p> </p><p>Before he could ask what Elias wanted, a small box on the corner of his desk opened of its own volition to show a miniature, spinning dancer. Its soft, chiming melody filled the air and tugged at Leo’s worst memories. </p><p> </p><p>Without an ounce of hesitation, he swiped out and sent the music box crashing to the hardwood. One heavy, solid stomp later, the music shuttered to a halt. </p><p> </p><p>Elias sent him an unimpressed look. “That was made in 1847.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then maybe you should have put it somewhere besides the edge of your desk,” Leo shot back. “Or, maybe, maybe you shouldn’t have called me to your office right before its clock was set to go off. You can’t act like you didn’t know that the music would upset me, right? You just thought I wouldn’t do anything about it. Can we get to the point?” </p><p> </p><p>A sigh, then a bland smile. “Of course, Danny. Will you sit?” </p><p> </p><p>“...Fine.” Fighting that battle would be a waste of energy when he needed to focus it all on hiding any poor reaction to the name. He wouldn’t give Elias the satisfaction. </p><p> </p><p>“To business, then.” Elias steepled his fingers, because he was nothing if not a smug prick. “The Institute offers a level of protection to those who serve it. It’s a protection I’m glad to give, especially for those in our more crucial positions.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure Tim’s feeling every bit of that protection, right now.” </p><p> </p><p>"It’s actually your brother who used that very same protection to shield <em> you, </em>Danny.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo’s brows drew. “What are you talking about?” </p><p> </p><p>“I received a rather interesting phone call the other day,” Elias continued. “Specifically, about the Institute’s name being used in conjunction with some… public works efforts.”</p><p> </p><p>“Public works?” </p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t play the fool, Danny. You and I both know your role is far from that.” Elias’s eyes went sharp as scalpels. “No, you’re the <em> ringmaster. </em>It’s a role you used quite happily at a local bank, just short of a week ago.” </p><p> </p><p>When Leo didn’t reply, Elias kept going. “As you can imagine, the call that claimed staff from my institute were involved in the situation came as a surprise. According to the chief of police, <em> you </em>were following up on a case from the Institute, and ended up in the middle of a robbery.” He raised a brow. “Considering you are not employed here, that’s no small feat.” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you <em> want, </em>Elias?”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> want </em>to ensure that you understand the Institute’s protection is not free.” He pushed a single page across the desk. </p><p> </p><p>Leo studied it a moment, then looked up. “What is this?”</p><p> </p><p>“A contract of employment.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can read.” He had no patience for doublespeak. “What is it <em> actually?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Elias smiled again. Leo considered punching him in the mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Insurance.” </p><p> </p><p>Meaning that it would tie him to the Institute or Elias in some way. Give Elias a level of control. Put a Stranger that much more into the Eye’s line of sight.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have a choice here, do I?”</p><p> </p><p>“You always have a choice, Danny.” </p><p> </p><p>Leo wished he’d stop saying his name, which was without a doubt what Elias wanted. “Right, like all the many choices I had with the circus?” </p><p> </p><p>“You chose to return,” Elias replied easily. “You went to explore an abandoned theater, and got more than you bargained for, but you escaped. You found comfort and refuge with your brother. That could have been it for both of you. Perhaps a bit more trauma for the road, but otherwise untouched. </p><p> </p><p>“No one made you go back.”</p><p> </p><p>It came as no surprise when that same old smile dragged its way onto Leo’s face, and he made no effort to fight it. He could take some petty revenge in how unsettling it was.</p><p> </p><p>Hard to take it any further when Elias was absolutely correct. He didn’t even know <em> why </em>he went back. It was like asking salmon why they swam upstream — it was just the nature of things. He did because he was meant to. Because that was where he was supposed to go.</p><p> </p><p>Because he followed his script. </p><p> </p><p>Elias continued through Leo’s silence. “Some choices have a wrong answer. I would suggest you not choose the wrong again. You and your brother survived one of your wrong choices, and I’m not sure how much luck either of you has left.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s time away had taught him well how to dodge, but it also taught him when to stay still and wait. Sometimes attempting to dodge a strike meant walking into the blade.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t dodge. Not here. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>His signature had always been a large, looping thing, and he made a point to sign his full name — <em> Daniel Bisaam Stoker.</em> Really fill the page. Part of him was almost sad he and Tim didn’t take their mother’s last name; <em> Daniel Bisaam bin Afan </em>would crowd it all even more. </p><p> </p><p>Unless it’d be <em> bin David, </em>with their own father’s name rather than their maternal grandfather’s. He didn’t know near enough about how all that worked to make some kind of conjecture. Either way, it’d do the job. </p><p> </p><p>Contract signed, whatever that meant for him, Leo sat back. “There.” He rapped his knuckles against the arm of the chair — no more than a nervous fidget, but the sound of it made his brow furrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Delightful.” Elias pulled the page over and scanned it, then set it aside. Any trace of his previous humor was nowhere to be seen. “I expect that we will not need to speak again about you overstepping your bounds. Should we, it will not be pleasant for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Leo tuned him out as he knocked on the arm of the chair again. Where had he heard that noise before?</p><p> </p><p>“Danny?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Knock knock. </em>0132306. Spelled with fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny, I don’t appreciate being ignored. You—”</p><p> </p><p>Leo’s head snapped up. “He’s still at the wax museum.” </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nikola was <em> lying, </em>she never— The number he said, that was the case number Jon used to—” He flew out of his chair, thoughts racing. “I need to find Basira.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sit down. We are not finished here.” </p><p> </p><p>As he rushed out, Leo barely had the presence of mind to call, “Yes, we are!” over one shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>There would be consequences for this, he knew that well. It couldn’t matter any less to him.</p><p> </p><p>Damn the consequences. Danny was going to get his brother back.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: identity issues, intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, emotional manipulation, captivity, offscreen interrogation (tim does get his ass beat, it's never described but clear that's what's going on), references to the shit danny went through while with the circus, all the broad sort of Bad Shit that comes with kidnappings</p><p>in the wings: a revision of roles</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. THE LOVERS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On reunion, reintroduction, and knowing one's allies.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">i went ahead and put the whole hlm playlist together on youtube</a>] -- as it says in the description, listening in order is highly suggested, and the suggested listenings mark the beginning of each chapter's segment, and last chapter has a link to the spotify playlist. hope you all enjoy!!<br/>a related sidenote, this chapter's segment is the contortionist's interlude, and the songs there are much more about her and danny's relationship than they are the exact events of the chapter</p><p>check the endnotes for CWs!</p><p>suggested listening: human after all - dirt poor robins</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Danny crashed back in through the archive door, he was met with five pairs of eyes staring at him in various stages of shock.</p><p> </p><p>“The wax museum!”</p><p> </p><p>Basira recovered first. “Son of a bitch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, hold on.” Martin studied Danny’s face with visible concern. “What did Elias—”</p><p> </p><p>Danny flapped a dismissive gesture his way. “Doesn’t matter. Tim’s at the wax museum. The numbers he said, they’re—”</p><p> </p><p>“The case number I used!” Jon’s free hand bounced at his side as his eyes widened in realization. “Oh, g-d, he’s never going to let me hear the end of it if he finds out I didn’t realize. Is that what Elias told you?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Pretty sure he’d rather die than be useful,” Danny answered. From across the room, Melanie snorted in clear agreement.</p><p> </p><p>“We should go, right?” Martin looked expectant, waiting for the fourth round of a routine built on desperation. </p><p> </p><p>It would be so, so easy to agree. Danny wanted to. They could figure things out as they went. They needed to move, to go, to run without stopping until Tim was home.</p><p> </p><p>“No.” The word fell heavy from his mouth. Not a ball and chain. A cornerstone. “We should make a plan.”</p><p> </p><p>At her desk, Basira smiled. He thought, just maybe, he could see a bit of pride in her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Daisy pushed off the shelf she was leaning against and strode forward. “They won’t be expecting us, since it wasn’t one of Nikola’s clues. We’ve got surprise on our side.”</p><p> </p><p>“Unless Nikola realized what Tim was doing,” Basira said, and Daisy nodded.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie’s brows knit. “Why would she let us have that tape if she knew he was sending a message?”</p><p> </p><p>“Same reason she never actually moved him,” Daisy replied. “He’s bait.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bait for what?”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than answer Martin’s question, Daisy glanced pointedly at Jon, then Danny, then back to Martin. </p><p> </p><p>Melanie still looked confused. “So what was the point of the whole scavenger hunt thing, if she just wanted us back at the wax museum?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because desperate people are reckless. They make stupid mistakes.” Basira’s arms folded. “And there’s no faster way to make people desperate than to dangle something they want in front of them and pull it away, over and over.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we won’t be reckless. We’re going to plan.” Static impatience still buzzed across Danny’s skin and nipped at his heels, but that same flicker of pride from Basira pushed it down. “I think two groups is our best bet. One to distract Nikola and the others by making them think they’re the rescue party, and a second one to actually get Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“It would make the most sense if you were in the second group, and I was in the first.” Jon’s fingers flexed around his cane, but past his nerves lay obvious determination. “I can’t say I have much experience in being bait, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie pulled up her legs so she was sitting criss-cross on her claimed desk. “What should we do for that side besides yell, <em> One free archivist for any weird clown mannequin who wants him!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny snorted. “You’re on the right track, actually.” Ignoring Jon’s affronted look, he continued, “Make it a performance. Draw some spooky Eye sigil on the pavement. Chant in Latin. Whatever. Just make it look like you’re setting up for some big attack.”</p><p> </p><p>“And whoever doesn’t go with you is guarding him,” Daisy finished. </p><p> </p><p>“Right.” He flourished a hand at Jon. “Congratulations, you’ve been cast as our group Spooky Wizard. I hope you’ve got acting experience.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon cleared his throat and adjusted his jumper. “I’ve dabbled.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny rocked back on his heels to scan Jon with a critical eye. “Macbeth.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hamlet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dammit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Moving on!” Melanie called over them both. “We’ve got the distraction team, but what about the actual rescue?”</p><p> </p><p>“It should probably just be me and one other person,” Danny answered after a beat. </p><p> </p><p>“One of us, right?” Daisy asked with a gesture between her and Basira, and Danny nodded.</p><p> </p><p>She looked at her partner. “Me with him, you with the others?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira started to agree, then paused and turned to face Danny. “Which one of us do you want with you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Basira—”</p><p> </p><p>“He knows what he needs better than us.” </p><p> </p><p>The choice was his.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy was a good tracker, according to Basira, so even if things got <em> strange </em>she should be able to follow Danny with little trouble. She had endurance in spades and knew how to use every single advantage given to her. Her bite was a hell of a lot worse than her bark, and hoping they’d need neither was naive.</p><p> </p><p>She would also be glad to turn both against him if she had half a reason to think he was compromised. Back <em> there, </em>with only her to keep him grounded? Danny didn’t love his odds. Solidarity through long, silent hours in her car with nothing but each other and mediocre coffee could only go so far.</p><p> </p><p>Basira was bigger than Daisy, which meant she likely wouldn’t be quite as fast or stealthy. Not ideal. At the same time, she knew how to keep her cool better than anyone else here. There was a clarity to her dark eyes that Danny wanted on his side. <em> There, </em>he would need it.</p><p> </p><p>“Basira with me,” he decided. “Daisy with the others. Daisy looks more immediately dangerous, and Basira’s been in the place twice. She’ll be better acclimated to how things get in there.”</p><p> </p><p>From the way Daisy’s eyes narrowed, it was clear she knew exactly why he’d chosen Basira, and she didn’t like it. She wanted to be there to keep him in check.</p><p> </p><p>Fine. She could do so as much as she pleased once Tim was back.</p><p> </p><p>Elias was correct, before. Danny had a knack for making the exact wrong choices, every time someone made the mistake of trusting him with them.</p><p> </p><p>He could only pray that at last, when it mattered most, he’d finally gotten one right.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Things moved very quickly after that.</p><p> </p><p>Jon scrambled around the archives to throw together a collection of pages and books, each more headache-inducing than the last. Whatever it all meant, Danny didn’t want to know. Probably <em> couldn’t </em>know, considering their different esoteric purviews. </p><p> </p><p>It was only when thinking about those that Danny realized he no longer felt quite as watched in the Institute. He wasn’t a trespasser here anymore, so the Eye didn’t need to focus on him. It made sense. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he could only be uneasy. If he wasn’t a trespasser, it meant he was a part of the Eye’s retinue. Not something he especially loved.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever. He could deal with the consequences when Tim was safe.</p><p> </p><p>All Danny brought was the same old backpack. He hadn’t added anything since he’d last carried it, and yet it somehow felt even heavier. Whether bringing it was preparedness or resignation, whether those were different at all, he still didn’t know. Expecting answers would be pointless.</p><p> </p><p>They took two cars this time: him, Jon, and Basira in one; Martin, Daisy, and Melanie in the other. Danny was tempted to make his own way there, but what good would it do? He had a plan. <em> They </em>had a plan. </p><p> </p><p>So, they would drive. </p><p> </p><p>Three hours. He could do three hours.</p><p> </p><p>Staring out the window could only entertain him for so long, so when Danny noticed Jon mumbling to himself, he leapt at the chance for a distraction.</p><p> </p><p>He sat on the edge of his seat to look over Jon’s shoulder at the notepad in his lap.</p><p> </p><p>“What’re you working on?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon tugged another page from its place crumpled between his knees and studied the words scrawled across it. “Writing myself a… script, I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p> </p><p>“None of the things I found were especially long, so I’m trying to compile them to give you both as much time as I can.”</p><p> </p><p>“Makes sense.” Danny scanned what Jon had written so far. “Are you writing that in iambic pentameter?”</p><p> </p><p>“Leo.” Jon turned his head to raise a brow at Danny. “Of course I’m writing it in iambic pentameter.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny snorted and fell back into his own chair without correcting the name. Using his original would probably be fine right now, but best not to risk it. </p><p> </p><p>“Besides,” Jon continued after writing another few words. “It’s not as if I’m short on time.”</p><p> </p><p>“True. Nikola will like it, anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s what I was hoping.”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if Nikola had some kind of affinity for verse, iambic or otherwise, but she always loved a show. Anything that dramatized it all was in their favor.</p><p> </p><p>After what felt like a thousand years staring out the window, but was more likely fifteen minutes, Danny asked, “What d’you think the others are doing? Can’t imagine they’re especially chatty.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira glanced down at the dashboard clock. “In a half hour or so, Daisy’s going to make them listen to the Archers.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sat bolt upright. “No way.”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s never missed an episode, and she’s not gonna start now.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon gaped at her for a moment before turning back to his page. “Color me relieved that I’m not there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you listened before?” Basira asked, and Jon shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“No, and I don’t intend to change that. Now or ever.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira huffed a short laugh through her nose. “Give it time. You’ll get dragged in eventually.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, they fell into silence. Danny resisted the urge to bite his nails down to the quick. There wasn’t much they could do about the scars across his palms, but he could at least keep from damaging his hands any further. Just in case. </p><p> </p><p>It might not matter. He really, really hoped it wouldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira’s voice startled Danny from his thoughts. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“What did Elias say to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon pulled himself free of some book he was absorbed in to look over. “I was wondering the same thing, myself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did he trauma-bomb you?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sent Basira a confused look from where she was watching him in the rearview mirror. “Trauma-bomb?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it’s this thing he did to Melanie.” She tucked a small bit of hair back under her hijab. “Her dad died a while ago, and she thought it was pretty natural, but apparently it was because of someone from the, uh…”</p><p> </p><p>“The Corruption,” Jon supplied. “John Amherst. His domain is to do with infectious diseases, the more severe the better. And ants.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s lip curled in faint disgust, and Basira nodded. “So, since she kept trying to kill him, Elias told her how he died, and threatened to just… show her. By implanting the visuals in her brain or something.”</p><p> </p><p>“Huh.” Danny folded his arms. “So, plucking some bad part of your life out of your head and making you see how it’s even worse?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“If he did that with me, I… don’t think I’d have been able to just pop right back down to the archives afterward.” With as much as he knew he was repressing, that would be a death sentence. The worst of what he <em> could </em>recall would be enough, no forced memory reintegration required. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to make sure.” Basira turned back to the road, but Jon wasn’t finished. </p><p> </p><p>“If not that, what <em> did </em>you talk about?”</p><p> </p><p>“Apparently after the whole — what did you call it? My <em>escapade? </em>Tim told the police there I was with the Institute so they’d look the other way, so Elias decided to make it official.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s eyes widened. “You signed a job contract?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, if I’d argued, that’s probably what would have made him pull out the whole trauma-bomb thing, so yeah. I signed it.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira shook her head. “Tim’s gonna be pissed.” </p><p> </p><p>“He can yell at me as much as he wants when he’s out of there,” Danny shot back.</p><p> </p><p>“Not at you. At Elias.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll probably join Melanie’s murder attempts,” Jon said with a trace of humor and plenty exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” Danny asked. “I knew it was something about keeping me in check, that was obvious, but what exactly does it mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t quit.” Without any clear purpose to the movement, Jon shuffled through his stack of pages. “And should Elias die, anyone who works there goes down with him.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny waited, but Jon stopped there. “That’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, <em> that’s it?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Oh no,” Danny deadpanned. “I can’t leave to go work a job at some other place I don’t care about, and I can’t kill a guy I didn’t want to kill anyway. The horror. The tragedy.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira rolled her eyes, and Jon shifted to face him. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s— there’s a lot more to it than that. If your intention is to leave, staying away too long makes you ill. And the work is plenty dangerous.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny couldn’t help an incredulous smile. “And this is different from my old job how?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, you—”</p><p> </p><p>“If I’m understanding you right, I’m able to leave the Institute whenever I want as long as I pop back in every so often. No one’s making me do anything I don’t want to. I think I can live with it.” He shrugged. “Besides, Tim’s there, you’re all there. Not much reason for me to be anywhere else.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can kill your old boss without dying,” Basira chipped in. “Can’t kill Elias.” </p><p> </p><p>“True.” Jon looked back to Danny. “Tim will be upset that Elias cornered you into that, of course, but if you’re genuinely unbothered…” </p><p> </p><p>“Yep.” Danny went back to watching out the window. </p><p> </p><p>He knew Basira might be right about the difference between Nikola and Elias, and who his life was tied to.</p><p> </p><p>He also knew that she might be very, very wrong. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>They pulled into the same car park they used before, and Danny tried to ignore nerves coiling sickly in his gut. The humidity didn’t help. </p><p> </p><p>He wished this was some perfect cinematic rescue. No anxiety. No fear. He wished he felt nothing but determination and the readiness to do whatever needed to be done. </p><p> </p><p>Danny wished he was brave. </p><p> </p><p>Jon took a deep breath from the passenger seat, then looked over to the other two. “I and the others will go… get started, I suppose. Martin texted and said they worked on some ways to initially grab Nikola and the rest’s attention. Considering he was with Melanie and Daisy, there’s no telling <em> what </em>that means.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it,” Basira replied. “We’ll give you ten minutes lead time, then head out. Leo and Tim will come straight here once we’ve got him, and I’ll get you all.”  </p><p> </p><p>A nervous swallow made Jon’s throat shift, but he nodded. “And if Tim— If he’s too—”</p><p> </p><p>“We deal with that if it happens.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Yes, of course.” Jon glanced over to Danny. “Good luck to you both, then.”</p><p> </p><p>He tugged his belongings together in a haphazard pile and, with one more awkward nod farewell, stepped out of the car to join the others. </p><p> </p><p>Danny watched out the window as the four regrouped, then made their way towards the street. Martin made sure to wave at the car one last time before they left Danny’s line of sight.</p><p> </p><p>Silence dragged along thick as honey, and June’s heat brought the same pervasive stickiness. The air felt too dense to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you…” Basira’s voice faded with clear discomfort, but she powered through. “...Feeling alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny blinked out of his hazy, dread-heavy thoughts. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t say anything when Jon left, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not an answer.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed. “How do you <em> think </em>I’m feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>There was no reply. Hard to have a conversation about feelings when she didn’t know him beyond some of the shit he’d been through and whatever stories Tim might have told. It wasn’t like Danny would complain about dodging an awkward heart-to-heart. </p><p> </p><p>“Jon was right,” Basira said after a few minutes of tense quiet. “If Tim can’t make it to the car—”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I’ll carry him.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s got to weigh more than you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Unless he wouldn’t. Unless Tim’s freedom required yet another exchange. Unless.</p><p> </p><p>The small eternity they waited wasn’t enough to settle his nerves before Basira said at last, “It’s time. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny slung his backpack over one shoulder. Basira made one last check of her holster. They did nothing so cliché as to exchange solemn nods, only met eyes for a brief second and went on their way. </p><p> </p><p>The sun was long set as Danny opted to skirt the buildings rather than duck down the same back alley he led them to last time.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we going to the front door?”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “There’s other entrances. The front’s what people wandering in use more often than not, so there’s usually someone watching there, or traps. The whole distraction thing will pull some away, but that doesn't mean they're all gone.” </p><p> </p><p>They turned into a gap between two shopfronts, so narrow it barely counted as an alley. “And you’ll know how to get to wherever they’re keeping Tim?”</p><p> </p><p>“Assuming he’s in the same place Jon was, yeah.” Danny stopped outside an innocuous-looking door not too far from the wax museum proper. It leading into the museum made no sense, of course. The buildings didn’t even connect to each other. “Nikola will like the parallel, I think, so that’s probably where he is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it. You ready?”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Course I am.” </p><p> </p><p>Basira didn’t second guess him despite the situation, the stakes, all of it. She expected him to speak up if he needed to halt. He wouldn’t need to. He couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Mere moments after they both crept inside, grateful for some flimsy shield from the heat, a feeling he couldn’t identify swelled up. Something weighted, but layered on itself a thousand times over. <em> Angry.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” Basira must have seen him wince.</p><p> </p><p>“I think Jon kicked off whatever he’s doing to distract them,” he explained. “Because it feels like hell, and it’s coming from that direction.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira looked around the room that was only sort of a room. “Are directions even a <em> thing </em>here?” </p><p> </p><p>“We all still had to get around the place. Come on, this way.” </p><p> </p><p>Everything was just as vibrant and inside-out as he remembered. Basira’s eyes unfocused by a degree — some attempt to keep from getting overwhelmed, he guessed. He tapped her wrist. </p><p> </p><p>“Stick with me. And stick to the shadows. Plenty of the troupe might still be around, and I don’t want to get into any confrontations.”</p><p> </p><p>“No kidding.” </p><p> </p><p>They crept along, keeping to darkness wherever they could — something that Basira had a knack for. Whether it was plain skill or her own eagerness to find refuge from all the Strangeness, there was no telling. Didn’t matter, at the end of the day. </p><p> </p><p>He pulled Basira into a side room to hide as a small group charged past, shouting to one another in abject confusion. The twin acrobats had changed costumes since he last saw them, but the way they kept their twisted arms linked even as they ran was a dead giveaway. Another figure held their own head tucked under one arm. The last in their party appeared humanoid, but skittered across the ground in all the ways a human arrangement of limbs shouldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>He wished it unsettled him as much as it did Basira. It was uncanny, yes. Wrong in a way that felt right, or right in a way that felt wrong. Both. Neither. </p><p> </p><p>Once the four passed, he murmured, “Let’s go,” and hoped his face showed none of that internal confusion. Basira nodded. He couldn’t read anything in the dark of her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Onwards. </p><p> </p><p>His heart lodged itself in his throat and swelled enough to choke him as they continued through twisting canvas halls and burlap crossroads. None of it matched his memory, but that’d be the case even if he never left. Each sharp corner and hollow room meant nothing, nothing, nothing at all. They would get where they needed to be. He knew how to navigate wrongness as well as he knew his own— </p><p> </p><p>No, better. Better than his own name. That was the point. </p><p> </p><p>A rush of movement ahead sent the two of them diving behind stacked boxes. Based on the stains alone, he didn’t want to know what they contained. His eyes stayed closed as the cluster passed; waiting, listening, praying for no music.</p><p> </p><p>“What kind of watch do you think he’ll have?” Basira’s voice was barely audible. </p><p> </p><p>“No idea.” He mirrored her volume. “Nikola might send them after whatever Jon and the others are doing, or they might get curious and go anyway. It depends on how much of a danger they think Tim is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right now, he’s probably not too threatening.”</p><p> </p><p>He shifted the straps of his pack. “The contortionist might realize what’s going on, and meet us there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it. What can we expect from her?”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s clever, and even stealthier than us.”</p><p> </p><p>“So we need to watch our backs.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” He turned to Basira with brows furrowed. “No, if she’s waiting there, it’ll be to help us. She must have tried to help Tim this whole time.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira stared at him for a long moment. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t believe me.” Why was everyone so eager to distrust her? Did they somehow think he was the only one in the <em> entire </em>troupe that could get out from under Nikola’s thumb? </p><p> </p><p>“Not really.” She canted her head to look through the crack between two crates. “But we can deal with it when we get there.”</p><p> </p><p>There was nothing he could say to that. They could argue when they were all out of here. If his luck held. If this exchange’s price came later rather than sooner. Maybe, maybe this time the contortionist would come with them. </p><p> </p><p>They moved on. Each step took them further into chaos with no sign of abating, all colors and shouts and confusion whipping around and around into a hurricane. Every time he and Basira ducked into a closet or around a corner, he grew more certain they would be caught. It wasn’t <em> if, </em> it was <em> when.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Every shift in the walls or creak from the rafters sent his heart racing all over again. His fear bashed against flimsy mental walls, howling and ravenous. It was a beast he could never let free. Not now. Not ever. If he felt it, everything was lost.</p><p> </p><p>“Looking more like we’ll have company,” Basira muttered to him after another scattered few of the troupe bolted past. “I’ll hold them while you— I don’t know, untie him or whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>“If I need to get him up on my back, that’ll take longer. You’ll be alright, still?”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever needs to happen, I can cover it.”</p><p> </p><p>Their whispers carried the reminder that they had no idea what sort of state Tim would be in. Would he recognize them considering how long he’d been in this place? Jon was kept from the worst of the unreality so Nikola could chat with him unimpeded, but there was no guarantee she upheld the same rule with Tim. Would he even be <em> conscious?  </em></p><p> </p><p>Worrying would get them nowhere. He worried anyway. </p><p> </p><p>When they at last reached the proper hall, commotion unlike any before greeted them. The chaos wasn’t directed towards that endless pressure of <em> watching, </em>far to the back of the place. No, this was something else. Internal. </p><p> </p><p>If he was right, if that was where they kept Tim — Christ, what were they doing? Were they hurting him? What could they do that they hadn’t already? Were they intending to kill Tim now just so Danny and the others had no one to save? </p><p> </p><p>Shouts rang out. A single look was all he and Basira needed to reach an agreement. She drew her baton, he snatched up a pipe from the stack of supplies they’d tucked themselves behind, and they charged forward. </p><p> </p><p>A scream from the room. Sounds of sharp things. That animal fear slammed against the cage of his ribs, slavering to devour him. </p><p> </p><p>No. He couldn’t let it. Tim needed him. </p><p> </p><p>It was a small blessing that he’d never had a knack for identifying the others in the troupe past their endlessly-changing costumes. Who knew how many of these people were once his friends? Who knew how many of those he’d once trusted like he did the air in his lungs now fell to his and Basira’s attacks? Even those made of stuffing and skin could only take a blow so well — they were so light, any hit would send them flying. </p><p> </p><p>Sheer chaos kept the two of them unscathed. With how focused this group was on whatever hell was inside that room, none expected an attack from behind. Of the half-dozen blocking their way, they managed to take down a couple before the rest knew what was even happening. </p><p> </p><p>Before they could make it to the door, another figure burst out. Light glinted on metal before it swung down to bury into a stuffed shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“I have had,” Tim growled as he pulled the axe free, “A <em> really </em>fucking bad week.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny could only gape. “You—”</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone freaked out,” Tim called back before smacking another mannequin with the blade. “Figured it was you all, so— thought I’d make the rescue a little easier. Idiots kept the axe in the same room.” </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go,” Basira ordered over them, and Tim nodded in breathless agreement. Danny brought his pipe down on what he thought might be an attempt at a taxidermy deer, and again they were off. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as they dodged around the corner, Danny pulled them into another side room to let the ones still standing pass them by. Stealth would serve them better. Tim had managed to hold his own just then, but considering the bruises littering his skin and the way he kept one hand pressed to the side of his ribs, Danny didn’t want to push their luck.</p><p> </p><p>He had to ask. “Did— did the contortionist ever come by?”</p><p> </p><p>“Some.” Danny couldn’t read Tim’s face, but he didn’t think that meant much. He wasn’t great at reading expressions, these days.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you seen her today?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. I don’t think, anyway. It’s hard to track days.” <span>Tim straightened up with sudden urgency.</span> “Wait, what day <em> is </em>it?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny stared back. “You think I know?”</p><p> </p><p>“June 24th,” Basira supplied before peering back out into the hall.</p><p> </p><p>“G-ddammit,” Tim grumbled, then clapped Danny on the shoulder. “Happy belated birthday.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your birthday? June 19th?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Right.” He’d forgotten. Not just the day, but the concept. There was no reason to celebrate birthdays when no one was <em> born </em>into the troupe. “You still having your skin and all is present enough.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim blew a few strands of tangled hair out of his face. “Bit insulted you think I’d settle for that, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up. The hall’s clear.” Basira jerked her head towards the door. “We need to keep moving.” </p><p> </p><p>So they went. Fear kept its claws rooted in Danny’s lungs, but its howls had abated by the smallest bit. They had Tim. Tim was okay — or, if not okay, at least well enough to defend himself. </p><p> </p><p>Against all odds, Danny began to hope. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever Jon and the rest were doing, it grabbed attention like a charm. The walls still shifted, the rafters above them still creaked, but far fewer members of the troupe passed by. Danny did what he could to shield their group in the strangeness of it all, and keep the two that most certainly didn’t belong here from standing out, but he could only pull so much before risking notice.</p><p> </p><p>The pressure of the Eye helped, in an odd, uncomfortable way — Danny had to pull harder because of its migraine throbbing, but the pain of it made its own sort of shield. However hard he pulled, it would always be the bigger force. Any knots in the melody the others felt would be chalked up to some fight against Jon’s whole performance. </p><p> </p><p>Each hall they crept through grew emptier, and Danny let out a breath. They got Tim. The end was in sight. Even if a piece was still missing, they made it.</p><p> </p><p>And, as always, the scene changed on cue. </p><p> </p><p>A trill of <em> “Ringmaster!” </em>was their only warning before a figure slid from whatever perch she found in the rafters to fall towards them as soon as they came in the next room.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, it was not his shoulders she landed on.</p><p> </p><p>Everything was colorspun and spaceshifted and wrong. It had to be. It <em> needed </em>to be, because if it was nothing but what it was, that meant the contortionist was perched on Tim’s back with a knife to his throat, and nothing, nothing, nothing at all made sense. </p><p> </p><p>A baffled smile worked its way onto his face. “What… what are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“You were going to leave me.” The contortionist’s eyes were wet. <em> “Again.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He heard Basira cock her gun, but held up his hand. He could fix this. He could make this make sense, because clearly there was some kind of misunderstanding here. He could fix it. He could.</p><p> </p><p>Tim remained stock-still. His chest barely moved with his breath. His face was stone. </p><p> </p><p>At the sight of Basira’s gun, the contortionist shifted so she was almost entirely behind Tim. One hand locked in his hair, and her legs settled with ease around his waist. The blade at his throat made no waver. </p><p> </p><p>“Your brother isn’t as pretty as you with all these scars.” Her nose scrunched in a pout so familiar it made him ache. “Nikola said she would try not to give him more, but I don’t think she tried very hard. I could make it work, though. I don’t <em> want </em> to, but I could.” She looked up from studying the curve of Tim’s jawline. “Unless you come <em> home, </em>Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s breath abandoned him. “You—”</p><p> </p><p>“Your brother is very chatty once you put him to the irons, my love.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, telling you to fuck off,” Tim hissed through clenched teeth. “I didn’t tell her your name, I <em> swear, </em>I—”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist laced her fingers further in Tim’s hair and yanked his head back, soundly cutting off his protests. “Between you and me, only one of us has never told your dear brother a lie. You could claim you haven’t, but that’d be another lie, wouldn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>How badly had Danny hurt her, with his lies and his leaving, that she was pushed to this?</p><p> </p><p>“I—” He couldn’t breathe, but somehow he forced his voice to keep steady. “I need you to let go of him, okay? Let go of him and come with us, and we can figure everything out. You can leave, too. You and me.” </p><p> </p><p>Wrong thing to say. Her face twisted.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> want </em>to leave! Why would I want that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, that’s okay.” Hand up in a placating gesture, Danny took a couple slow steps forward. “What do you want, then? We can figure it out.” </p><p> </p><p>Heartstopping pain widened her eyes. “I want things to go back to <em> normal, </em> where there weren't any <em> brothers </em> or <em> Archivists </em> or <em> any </em> of it! I want you to come <em> home, </em>ringmaster.” The knife remained as it was, but one of her shoulders shifted up enough for her to tilt her head down and scrub away a tear. “I miss you.”</p><p> </p><p>He’d cut her out as best he could, and all she wanted was for him to come home. She missed him. She still, despite everything, loved him.</p><p> </p><p>And she would hurt Tim. It… It was just because of the bad situation. Danny had pushed her too far. That was all. </p><p> </p><p>But it was unacceptable regardless, even if he understood. He wouldn’t let her do something she’d regret. He wouldn’t let Tim take the fall for his wrong choices again. </p><p> </p><p>“If I do come home, you’ll let him go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Danny, don’t you <em> dare—” </em>Tim’s growl was cut off with a gasping choke as the contortionist forced his head back yet again. Despite the awful angle of his neck, he managed to keep glaring with a fury Danny had rarely ever seen from him. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes!” Her mane of white-blonde curls bounced as she nodded, face still drawn into sharp, hurt angles. “I don’t want him. He’s not <em> you.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Then I will. I’ll come home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Danny,<em> don’t—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I promise.” </p><p> </p><p>Some of the tension drained from her grip on the knife, but in moments it returned. “How can I trust you? You’re probably just lying again. Ringmaster, I’ve never lied to you, <em> never, </em> but <em> I </em> can’t trust <em> you </em> to be honest!”</p><p> </p><p>Danny took another step, still open and nonthreatening. He didn’t want to frighten her on top of all this. Not when she was so volatile. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry I lied to you before leaving. I am, I swear.” Closer still. Tim’s glare was as sharp as the blade against his skin. “And last time I was here, you said I could prove it, right? Let me prove it.” He wet his lips. “Just let Tim go, and then—”</p><p> </p><p>Wrong. Her eyes narrowed with waxmelt heat.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t care at all about coming home, do you? You don’t care about me. You don’t care about <em> us, </em> or our troupe, or any of it!” She spat the words like fire. “You just care about <em> him.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>With a harsh movement she shook Tim’s head by the hair, and though he stifled a gasp, his face went ashen when her legs pressed even tighter around his torso. Blood traced down the column of his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Blind panic shredded Danny’s lungs to ribbons. “No, no, I— I swear I—”</p><p> </p><p>“They ruined you, didn’t they?! All these people who took you away from me, they broke you!” She pointed her knife at Danny. “You keep forgetting: <em> the show must—” </em></p><p> </p><p>Quick as a whip, Tim threw himself backwards. In the time Danny and the contortionist were talking, he had ever so slowly shifted to angle his back towards a wall, and now he used it to crush his captor with all the force he could muster.</p><p> </p><p>Danny jerked away in shock at the awful <em> crunch </em>her body made against the stone. It was a nauseating sound, and made his heart freeze in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Basira had no such hesitation. As soon as the contortionist fell, she darted forward to snatch Tim by the arm and drag him away from the pale, shuddering form on the floor. Danny couldn't break his horrified stare.</p><p> </p><p>Just like Basira had him, Tim grabbed Danny and yanked him back. Dumbstruck, it was a moment before Danny protested. </p><p> </p><p>“I— I told her I would stay, I <em> promised—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“And I told her your name is Prince fucking Henry,” Tim snapped without loosening his grip. “Let’s <em> go.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Between the two of them, he and Basira had no trouble dragging Danny along. The last thing Danny saw was her eyes, blue and enraged and so anguished it felt like his heart had been cored right out of his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Tim staggered as soon as they rounded a corner, hand once again pressed to his side. He was still far too pale. </p><p> </p><p>The halls twisted and turned and Danny’s thoughts twisted and turned and he was on autopilot. Smiled, smiled, smiled. It made no sense. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>If this place was built on anything but falsehood and sweet unreality, the thought might even be a comfort. </p><p> </p><p>Every crossroads grew thick with obstacles. Anywhere not packed too full of scrap costumes and music to navigate brought others from the troupe to join in pursuit. Whatever focus Tim held onto so far was fading fast. Concussion, if Danny had to guess.</p><p> </p><p>Tim did his best to keep up despite that, but he could only fight so long. There was a haze in his eyes that condensed with each minute, and his pace was more stumble than step. Danny pulled Tim’s free arm over his shoulders in some desperate bid to help, thoughts racing.</p><p> </p><p>No time. No options. No escape. Tim, for all his effort, was slowing them down. The troupe came unhindered. Basira turned to shoot as many as she could whenever possible, but even with the hall’s inherent chokepoint, it would never, never, never be enough.</p><p> </p><p>If Tim could no longer process the things around them, if there was some cloud between what he saw and what he understood… </p><p> </p><p>“Basira!” he shouted over the sickshock clamor. “I think— I can’t take you both, but I might be able to—” </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t wait for him to finish before barking, <em> “Go!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Frantic, Danny’s head whipped around the crossroads before him. Behind, the horde. In front, music. To the left, dance.</p><p> </p><p>To the right, opportunity. </p><p> </p><p>Fast enough to feel cruel, Danny yanked Tim down the hall. Only when they were halfway down did he pause and push Tim around to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen to me.” He took Tim’s face in his hands to try and keep him focused. “Don’t think about where we are. Don’t think about where we’re going. Can you do that?” </p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t—” </p><p> </p><p>“Tim. <em> Don’t think, </em>okay? Just walk.” </p><p> </p><p>Still cloudy, Tim managed a nod. It would have to be enough. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s gonna be okay,” Danny mumbled. “We’re going home.”</p><p> </p><p>For as much as he told Tim to not think about their destination, Danny has just as little an idea of where to go. Somewhere safe. Somewhere to recover.</p><p> </p><p>Adrenaline sharpened Danny’s senses to the point of incomprehension. The twisting, turning, lying halls shifted like a change in key. New tempos rolled along the blur-turned-cheery yellow wallpaper. </p><p> </p><p>The fraction of him that wasn’t busy drowning in relief that his gamble worked or praying desperately that Basira would be able to escape and join the rest without them to slow her down wondered where they were. He didn’t recognize this place. Tim’s half-lidded eyes gave no answers. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t overthink it. They escaped, yes, but Tim was still hurt. Danny was still terrified. They were still far from safe. </p><p> </p><p>After a second of blank staring, Danny made a beeline for the first door he laid eyes on with Tim staggering along at his side. Someone there would help. They had to.</p><p> </p><p>Danny pounded on the door with no regard for the time of night. “Hello? Hello, is anyone— I need help, I—” </p><p> </p><p>Before he could knock again, the wood vanished under his fist to reveal a stocky woman with dark skin and long black braids. Her mouth froze open as whatever she had planned to say halted in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as their eyes met, Danny begged once again. “Please, I— He needs to go to a— a hospital, I think, I—”</p><p> </p><p>Georgie recovered in an instant.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get my keys.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: gaslighting, relationship abuse, manipulation, hostage negotiation, on-screen physical violence </p><p>in the wings: a well-earned intermission</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. SEVEN OF WANDS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On scars, honesty, and confronting the incomplete.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we've got a good amt of heavy conversation in this one, since lord knows no one's gotten a chance to actually <i>process</i> the exciting trauma conga line of this fic for a while. specific warnings in the end note!</p><p>ART!<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/621387342769504256/akosyy-the-ringmaster-from-head-in-the-lions">this EXCELLENT birthday gift from sy!</a>] <i>[link broken atm - to be updated!</i></p><p>suggested listening: dearest brother by firewoodisland<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">playlist so far</a>]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Disliking hospitals was laughably cliché, of course, but Danny thought he’d earned the monotony. Tim making one last quip on Georgie's doorstep was a cliché of its own, so they were even.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll get my keys.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Great.” Weak smile, attempt at a thumbs up. “I’m gonna pass out now.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One stroke of luck: Georgie was plenty strong. Basira’s judgement was spot on — Tim was heavy. Relief hit so powerfully it made Danny weak, and he almost fell over Tim went all ragdoll on him. Between the two of them, they managed to haul him to her car with as much ease as could be expected.</p><p> </p><p>Danny had no idea how he could even begin repaying Georgie for her aid. Last time he and the rest had shown up in such a state, she at least had a warning. No way to warn her today. </p><p> </p><p>Georgie gave refuge, safety, transport. She gave Danny a <em> name, </em>weeks ago. Danny probably gave her an ulcer, or at the very least some grey hair. Not the best trade.</p><p> </p><p>A quiet shift from his side sent every thought flying from his head. He sat up to watch as Tim lifted a hand to rub his eyes, then blinked in vague confusion at the IV set into his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“They said you were pretty dehydrated.” Hospital rooms always seemed to necessitate quiet, but talking to Tim demanded the opposite. Danny did his best to split the difference. “Probably some painkillers there, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Hey.” Tim did his best to shift up against his pillow so he was somewhere in the neighborhood of sitting. Danny didn’t try to help, not when he knew Tim wouldn’t appreciate it. “You alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny stared at him for a few seconds. “You— Tim? Tim. You’re literally in the hospital, and you’re asking if I’m alright.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, if I’m here, means I’m sorted, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not really, but sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“So. Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not hurt or anything.” He talked over the flat look Tim shot him. “Georgie called the others, they’re all fine. Basira made it out.” </p><p> </p><p>As Danny had hoped, the loss of any need to protect him and Tim meant Basira could escape unscathed. He didn’t think any of them would have been able to handle another round of that awful scavenger hunt.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever the scope of Nikola’s rage, he didn’t want to know. The repercussions for the most minor slights were bad enough. All he could do was pray she would spare the—</p><p> </p><p>No. No, he wouldn’t think of her right now.</p><p> </p><p>Tim let out a relieved breath at the update. “Georgie still around?”</p><p> </p><p>“She said she needed to run home to feed her cat, but she’d be back soon.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm. How long’s it been? Since we got here, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy. A couple hours, maybe?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded and sank back against his pillow. Finding the point where bruises ended and dark circles under his eyes began was an impossible task, but Danny gave it his best regardless.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know what you’d want me to say as far as all <em> this </em>goes,” he said with a vague gesture up and down at Tim. “So I just told them that you asked me to pick you up, but I didn’t know what happened.” </p><p> </p><p>“Probably best to leave it at that.” Tim scratched at the bandage on his throat. “Not really sure how we’d explain that I got knocked around by some mannequins. I’d like to leave with some dignity intact, y’know?” Danny didn’t reply beyond rolling his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t long before the doctor, a small, mousy individual, returned with a perfectly stereotypical clipboard in hand. Everyone was cashing in their clichés today. </p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Stoker, good to see you up,” they greeted, their clipped tone belying soft features. “My name is Dr. Hayley Barron. How are you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny caught a split-second grimace before Tim pushed on a smile. “Could be worse. Now, give it to me straight, doc: how long do I have to live?”</p><p> </p><p>They quirked a brow at him. “Eat your vegetables, get plenty of exercise, and I’d say you have at least a few decades.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, who knows.” Tim shot a finger gun their way. “Maybe I’m immortal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, of course. Always a danger.” They returned to their clipboard. “Now, I’d like to do some X-rays, but a basic rundown until then…”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sat up to lock intently onto them. He didn’t want to miss a thing. </p><p> </p><p>When they looked up once more, they met his eyes, then blinked and checked their board again. “That is, um—” Eye contact, away, back again. They cleared their throat. “You— There’s, um—”</p><p> </p><p>“Danny,” Tim cut through their stuttering. “You mind checking to see if the others are here yet? If it’s been a few hours, they’ve gotta be close, and they’ll appreciate not having to wander around to find the right room.”</p><p> </p><p>“But—” He let out a short sigh. Tim wasn’t wrong. “Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>The halls were as busy as one would expect for a London hospital, full of passersby whose second glances he ignored. Maybe it was his rather substantial presence. Maybe it was how he was just a bit too tall (he was always this tall, right? The circus couldn’t have changed him that much, unless it did). Maybe it was something so mundane as the dark look on his face. </p><p> </p><p>Danny wasn’t an idiot. Yes, the others might be there. They also knew how to talk to receptionists, and read the directional signs posted every few feet.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Between you and me, only one of us has never told your dear brother a lie.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a <em> lie. </em>It wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>It also wasn’t the <em> truth. </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny would just ask when he got back. No reason to dwell on it. It wasn’t a big deal.</p><p> </p><p>Lo and behold, there was no sign of them in the lobby. He rolled his neck, just once, then started back the way he came. </p><p> </p><p>“Leo, wait up!” He turned to see Georgie hurry up to his side. “What’re you doing down here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Tim’s up,” he answered. “He asked me to see if the others were here yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Georgie lifted her phone a bit. “Melanie texted me — they’re looking for parking now.”</p><p> </p><p>“So, they’ll be here in twenty minutes?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed. “That’s optimistic.”</p><p> </p><p>They walked in companionable quiet for a minute before he broke it.</p><p> </p><p>“You can call me Danny, by the way. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>She tilted her head with a slight smile. “Why are you apologizing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I mean, you gave me the name Leo, and now I’m just— I don’t know, throwing it out, I guess?” He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not stupid, but you also don’t need to apologize. Like…” She thought for a moment. “If I put a cast on your arm or something, I wouldn’t be mad if you took it off once it healed. You used it for when you needed it.” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded. It made sense. That didn’t kill all the weird guilt clouding in his chest, but eventually, it might.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides,” Georgie continued. “Names are meant to fit the people who have them, not the other way around, if that makes sense. I mean, I don’t really look like a <em> Georgina, </em>do I?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny looked her over. Braids half-tied into a loose, casual knot; a plain green T-shirt; jeans Danny was pretty sure were men’s cut; well-worn boots. No, she did <em> not </em>look like a Georgina.</p><p> </p><p>His expression must have shown that conclusion loud and clear, and she laughed. “Exactly. I wanted something more feminine, and I always liked my great-aunt Georgina, but that doesn't mean her name fit perfectly even after I picked it. I made it fit me by going with Georgie instead, not making myself fit Georgina. So, if you feel like Leo, use Leo, but if you feel like Danny, use Danny. Sometimes it’s that easy.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded again. “Yeah. Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Honestly? Most of that was from what your <em> Leo </em>namesake told me.” Georgie knocked him with an elbow. “So half-credit to her.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, they reached Tim’s room again. Dr. Barron was still at his bedside.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, just in time!” Tim waved in a loose motion. “They weren’t here?”</p><p> </p><p><em> You already knew that, </em>Danny thought, but he shook his head. “Georgie said it wouldn’t be long, but not yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Perfect.” Tim grinned. “That means <em> you </em>get the thrilling task of pushing me around in a wheelchair. Try to contain your delight.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m ecstatic.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you might be.” He clapped his hands together. “Alright, doc. Let’s go shoot me with some radiation.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t pay any mind to however long the whole X-raying process took. It didn’t matter. No doubt Tim was chatting away with the radiologist while Danny waited just outside the door.</p><p> </p><p>Kidnapped for a week; subject to who knew how many fucked up interrogations; thrown smack in the middle of a hostage negotiation. Still upbeat. Still cracking jokes. Still with those easy smiles.</p><p> </p><p>If Danny didn’t know Tim so well, it might have even fooled him.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered if this was how Tim felt right after they got Danny out. Did Tim also have to watch hour by hour in painful anticipation, helpless to the knowledge that when his brother cracked — and he <em> would </em> crack — he would have no options but to try and weather the storm? In the weeks since, had Tim ever <em> stopped </em>feeling this way? </p><p> </p><p>They knew some of Danny’s fractures by now. They knew where the floors went brittle. They knew where fissures lined the glass. </p><p> </p><p>Tim sat back at Danny’s well-worn square one. They had no preventative measures for him, not when there was no telling where his own fractures lay. All they could do was ready themselves for fallout. </p><p> </p><p>Tim had to know that. He had to know that Danny knew. He had to know that Danny knew that <em> he </em>knew, because this carousel spun just the same as its predecessor. Not a cycle of fear and searching this time, no — only dread. Dread and redundancies. </p><p> </p><p>On the way back to Tim’s room, Danny gave no more than cursory replies to his scattered comments and quips that were <em> almost </em>jokes. References pinballed through without rhyme or reason. He sounded like someone trying to do an impression of his own speech patterns, but without the comfortable roll from one point to the next and the next. These were clumsy. Jagged. </p><p> </p><p>And this was neither the time nor place to address it. Pulling at the cracks in Tim’s mask would be cruel when he had yet to leave the spotlight. Danny was in no mood to entertain another audience, but when they came in the door to see a half-dozen new faces in various stages of fear and relief, he could only be grateful. It meant that much more time for Danny to try and figure out how the hell to show Tim that his loose seams were no secret without tearing them open further.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, office party!” Tim said with a smile. The whole group was there, bar Daisy. Probably chose to wait in the car rather than get caught up in any hospital-room reunion. “I promise I can walk to the bed, Dr. Danny, you can stop the chair.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t reply, but he halted as asked. With Martin already fretting at his side, Tim made his mostly-stable way to sit on the mattress in clear relief. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you need me to get you anything?” Martin wrung his hands. “I could— I mean, I don’t know what the protocols for tea are, or anything, but—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim raised his brows with an amused smile, then lifted his arms. “You can just ask for a hug, it’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>No hesitation on Martin’s part. He fell into what was half an awkward lean, half a seat on the bed; arms tight around Tim’s chest. Tim hissed through his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Ribs, Martin, watch the—”</p><p> </p><p>Martin pulled away with a sharp inhale. “Sorry, sorry! I just— I’m glad you’re alright, I— Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“I promise you haven’t lost hug privileges, just— ribs.” </p><p> </p><p>Again, Martin needed no encouragement, though this time he went for around the shoulders. Tim shot Danny a long-suffering look from where his chin was hooked over Martin’s own shoulder, one which Danny returned in full force. <em> You can just ask for a hug, </em>as if that wasn’t Tim’s own way of asking. Transparent as anything. </p><p> </p><p>Even while still hugging Martin, Tim and Jon met eyes. Something passed there that Danny couldn’t decipher — though, if either one of them could decipher it themselves, he’d be shocked.</p><p> </p><p>Danny made his own eye contact with Melanie, and when her lips pressed together and brows went up he almost burst out laughing. </p><p> </p><p>Before any of those three could pull out some new drama, Danny glanced over to Jon. “What exactly did you do for the distraction? I could feel it from where Basira and I were.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon blinked at him, wide-eyed. “You could?”</p><p> </p><p>“Based on the face he made when we got in, yeah,” said Basira. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, um. Sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t apologize.” Danny shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it? Just felt weird, is all.” </p><p> </p><p>The dismissal didn’t seem to assuage any of Jon’s guilt, but he carried on. “Elias said—”</p><p> </p><p>“I object to having to hear that bastard’s name this soon after getting back.” Martin patted Tim’s shoulder — to what end, Danny couldn’t fathom. </p><p> </p><p>“Our boss, then.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Regardless </em> of the name, he said that even if those there had done anything to try and remove the sigil I added, if any part of it still remained, it’d function as it was <em> ‘supposed’ </em>to.” Jon’s lips pursed. “Whatever that means, I haven’t a clue, but I tried to— to lock onto it, if that makes sense. Like… a chink in the manifestation’s armor. Since they caught us I assumed they destroyed it, but if any attempts were made, they weren’t thorough.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nikola’s a lot of things, but detail-oriented isn’t one of them,” Danny commented. “Them missing a piece makes sense.” </p><p> </p><p>“I think the fact that it was carved helped, rather than written or painted. Lines that were left behind looked the same as any other split in the wood.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim held his arms out wide. “All of you are welcome.” </p><p> </p><p>“He forgot to mention the chanting,” Melanie added. “But there was chanting.” </p><p> </p><p>Despite his scarlet face, Jon straightened where he stood, head tilted up as if attempting to hold on some kind of decorum. “It was— It was just a part of the role, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve always been a method actor,” Georgie laughed. Jon turned to sputter at her with hands waving, though every word tripped over the next and left him largely incomprehensible. </p><p> </p><p>Tim joined in for a second, then winced. His hand pressed once more to his side as he looked over to Danny.</p><p> </p><p>“You sure there’s painkillers here?” he asked with a gesture at the IV. </p><p> </p><p>“Pretty sure, but I don’t know what sort of dosage or anything. I didn’t talk much to any of the nurses.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin hopped to his feet. “I’ll see if I can track down—” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, no, it’s fine.” Tim's hands lifted in placation. “No need to accost random medical staff.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure? I don’t mind, really.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie caught Danny’s eye again, grimaced, and mouthed, <em> Yikes. </em>Danny snorted in agreement. Absolute disasters. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Tim convinced Martin he didn’t need to shake down everyone in the hall in a white coat, Jon had come to a realization. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait, if no one else had mentioned Elias’s name before now…” He turned to Danny, ignorant of Danny’s glaring signal to shut up. “Did you not tell him—”</p><p> </p><p>“I was <em> waiting—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what?” Tim narrowed his eyes at Danny. “The hell did Elias do?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sighed. “I was waiting until you weren’t in the <em> hospital,” </em>he began with another glare at Jon, who at this point looked appropriately chagrined. “But… You have a new coworker.” Jazz hands did little to soften the blow — reasonable, considering their inherent sarcasm. </p><p> </p><p>“He made you sign a contract.” Tim’s voice was flat. Bad sign.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, his exact words were that the Institute’s protection wasn’t free, and he wanted <em> insurance.” </em>Hands in his pockets, Danny shrugged. He was no more bothered by it all than he was when he first told Jon and Basira. “So, I signed it. He didn’t exactly spell out the consequences for if I refused, but you don’t need to speak to make a threat, y’know? I already got the rundown of what it means.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Face hard, Tim nodded once. “I’m gonna kill him.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have a concussion and a couple busted ribs.” However flat Tim was, Basira had him beat. “You’re not killing anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Also, that’d kill all of us. I’m very into, uh, <em> not </em>dying,” Danny added. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait, concussion?” </p><p> </p><p>Martin’s refreshed round of fretting was as good a subject change as Danny could hope for — it certainly took all of Tim’s attention. </p><p> </p><p>The X-ray confirmed what they already expected: a couple hairline fractures through Tim’s ribs, but no severe internal damage or jagged edges that might require surgery. Danny knew little of Tim’s other injuries beyond what he could see — he’d missed the list Dr. Barron gave while off to check for the others. Regardless, none of it was severe enough to require an extended stay. Once Tim’s dehydration was sorted, they would be free to go with some prescription painkillers and a stern order to rest.</p><p> </p><p>It took some convincing to get the others to go home, barring Basira. She and Daisy were the only ones with their car at the hospital considering their carpool to Great Yarmouth. Daisy took the others to the Institute where they left their own cars, and Basira would drive Danny and Tim home. </p><p> </p><p>Without the audience, Tim was flagging. He made a charitable effort whenever any of the staff came by, and if Danny or Basira spoke directly to him, he’d act as if all was well, but his threads were wearing thin. </p><p> </p><p>Tim could have slept to pass the time. He certainly looked like he could use it. Danny knew better than to ask why he deigned not to.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until they were, at last, discharged and Basira left to pull her car up to the entrance that Danny had the chance to ask a different question. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim?”</p><p> </p><p>He looked up from his place back in a wheelchair. Unneeded, but it was hospital protocol. His hair fell lank around his face. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why did you want me out of the room when Dr. Barron first came by?” </p><p> </p><p>Tim took a moment to process the question, then rubbed his eyes with a hand. “Just— You can get pretty intense, these days. Especially if someone doesn’t know you.”</p><p> </p><p>Fair, Danny supposed. Didn’t mean he liked it. “That’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, as soon as you pinned Dr. Barron with that stare, that’s when they started stumbling over themself. You know all the important stuff they said, anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you did know the others wouldn’t be here yet.” </p><p> </p><p>With a sigh, Tim sank back in his chair, temple propped against his fingers. “I knew it was a long shot, but it was still possible. What, did you just want me to say, <em> Hey doc, sorry my brother is making you uncomfortable! Danny, go in the hall for a minute so you can sit around and self-flagellate for this thing you can’t help?"</em></p><p> </p><p>Put like that, Danny saw Tim’s point. He was just being oversensitive. It didn’t matter, really. It was fine.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s eyes stayed closed. The bags under them looked almost black. “Me, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Between the two of them and Basira, very few words were exchanged on the drive home. Danny could have believed Tim fell asleep against the passenger door had his eyes not snapped right open as soon as Basira pulled into the driveway. </p><p> </p><p>Tim mumbled something that sounded like a thank you. Danny mimicked him and added a quiet, “See you later.” </p><p> </p><p>She merely nodded and returned the sentiment before driving off. Must’ve seen that neither of them were in any state to chat. </p><p> </p><p>The house was as dark as the street outside, though even when Danny turned a lamp on, Tim didn’t spare Martin’s scattered belongings a second glance. </p><p> </p><p>“M’gonna take a shower and sleep for forty-eight hours. If the house catches on fire, keep it out of my room.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep first?” Tim looked about ready to fall over, by Danny’s estimate. “And wait to shower?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure.” No hesitation. </p><p> </p><p>Tim started towards the bathroom, but paused when Danny managed to catch his arm. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I…” Now was the worst time for his voice to leave him. By some miracle, Tim understood what Danny wanted anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He held his arms out. “C’mon.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny had no right to buckle here, not when he was meant to be ready as support for when Tim did the same, but the past hellish week didn’t care who fractured first as long as they all broke. Mindful of Tim’s injuries, Danny did his best to keep from using too much pressure. Tim gripped tight enough for the both of them. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m really glad you’re back.” The mumbled words were far too small for their intentions, made smaller by tightness in Danny’s throat. Tim nodded against his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>If something was supposed to come next, Danny didn’t know it. Was there some perfect, reassuring phrase to bring all this to a close? Was there an exact right joke to help soothe their tension without making light of it? </p><p> </p><p>For a man whose words kept him alive for years, he was laughably incompetent with them when it mattered most. </p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t say anything. He also didn’t loosen his hold. Danny figured that following his lead was as clear guidance as he could hope for. </p><p> </p><p>They were home. They were, on some level, safe. Not for forever, but for now. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, that would be enough.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>Martin’s arrival to collect his things the next afternoon was a welcome distraction from Danny’s anxious flitting around the house. He could only hover outside Tim’s bedroom and debate knocking so many times. </p><p> </p><p>“Elias said you both have two weeks leave,” Martin said as he tucked the half-finished blanket into his duffle bag. “Apparently he sent an email, but I don’t know if Tim’s checked that.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny shook his head. “He’s been asleep since we got back, so no.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not surprising. I slept a whole day after I got out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Tim mentioned that.” Martin zipped the bag. “You— You really didn’t sleep at all, the whole time you were there?”</p><p> </p><p>“A bit in the very beginning, but it petered out. Unless you count being unconscious.”</p><p> </p><p>Openly staring, Martin said, “I… don’t think that counts, no. Traditionally.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny winced. “Sorry. That came out a lot more grim than I thought it would.”</p><p> </p><p>“...How on Earth did you think it <em> wouldn’t </em>be grim?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I say that it’s because I’m not used to that being something people blink twice at, that’s probably just as bad, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s grimace answered the question before he said a word. “Just a bit, yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you’re— It’s fine.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get for you guys? I could maybe bring by some food, or— or help tidy up so you don’t have to worry about it, or something like that?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s first instinct was to turn down the offer out of hand, but the fact of the matter was that he had no idea what they might need. Yes, he remembered how to navigate a kitchen well enough. Yes, he could clean the place fine on his own. What if something happened and they needed to drive somewhere? Even though the worst of Tim’s concussion was behind him, there were plenty of days yet before it’d be safe for him to be behind the wheel. Danny hadn’t driven in years, and muscle memory could do little for his lack of a license. </p><p> </p><p>Which… he’d have to deal with at some point. What even <em> was </em>the process to return a person’s identity? </p><p> </p><p>A problem for later. Certainly not one Martin could fix. </p><p> </p><p>“Not right now, but I’ll let you know. No doubt we’ll need it at some point.” Danny ran a tired hand through his hair. “Sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to be sorry. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t willing.” There was clear helplessness in Martin’s eyes as he studied the firmly shut door to Tim’s room. “Just… let him know we’re all here for him.” </p><p> </p><p>“Will do.” </p><p> </p><p>The smile Martin gave with his farewell was of an unfinished sort, and Danny could only hope that returning it would lend some completion. It wasn’t enough, no; nothing would be until Martin felt like he’d helped in full. How dropping everything to stay in the Stoker house for a week and keep Danny’s edges from crumbling apart failed to fulfill that, Danny had no idea. </p><p> </p><p>The least he could do was look for something that might — as best he could with so many other incompletes to keep watch over, at any rate. Memories. Truths. The sides of stories neither Danny nor Tim were eager to share.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could find something to help Martin, Danny would have to make some attempt to fill in the gaps lingering in the air here. No part of that process would be easy, or fast. Simpler to leave a splinter buried in skin rather than drag it free with a needle and gritted teeth. Simpler didn’t equal better by its own right. </p><p> </p><p>It would hurt, but so did anything worth doing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>In his defense, Danny didn’t <em> mean </em>to set off the fire alarm.</p><p> </p><p>For all he told Tim about how he could read a recipe just fine, that didn’t translate as easily as he’d hoped to success. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t even <em> that </em>burnt. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim emerged from his room, bleary-eyed and plenty confused, Danny blinked at him from where he was scraping a mess of batter into the bin. Just Danny's luck he had his hearing aids in, now of all times.</p><p> </p><p>Tim stared. Danny stared back.</p><p> </p><p>“Look, pretty sure any chef worth their salt says you have to throw out the first pancake anyway,” Danny told him. “So by that, I think I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.”</p><p> </p><p>The alarm’s continued scream undercut every word and left his meager attempt at justification in tatters. </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s head dropped where he stood. Danny watched his shoulders shake, concerned, until he looked up again to show the lopsided smile on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“One sec.” Moments after Tim ducked into the hall, the alarm went silent. Danny’s ears continued to ring in its absence. </p><p> </p><p>Hand outstretched as soon as he came back, Tim said, “Give it here.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny scowled at him. “Absolutely not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to eat sometime today?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not surrendering to g-ddamn <em> pancakes.” </em>He turned his glare to the ancient cookbook he’d unearthed from the cabinet under the sink. “This is a matter of pride now.” </p><p> </p><p>“At least let me show you how to <em> not </em>burn them,” Tim conceded with a roll of his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Still scowling, Danny relinquished the spatula. Trial and error was a fine way to learn, but for all his protests, he did want to come out of this with something edible for breakfast. </p><p> </p><p>Not breakfast. Right. Summer meant it was plenty light out, but according to the microwave’s clock, they were well into the evening by now. Breakfast for dinner, then. </p><p> </p><p>Danny spared a moment to wonder why eating pancakes for dinner was all well and good, but offering someone a steak pie in the morning would be strange. Why did the time of day outline what food a person could eat? Nothing stopped people from going for dinner food in the morning, he supposed, but it was definitely some sort of taboo, and not one that applied in reverse. Weird.</p><p> </p><p>“Once you see those, that means it’s done on that side, so you can flip it.” </p><p> </p><p>When Tim glanced over at Danny after successfully flipping his demonstration in the pan, his self-satisfied look vanished to make way for exasperation. </p><p> </p><p>“You weren’t listening to any of that, were you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um. You said words, and I heard that you said words. That’s got to count for something.”</p><p> </p><p>The exasperation doubled. “Glad to know your ears work. If you wanna kick your brain into gear with them, it might help.” Tim dropped his finished pancake onto the plate Danny left on the counter, then held the pan his way. “Look, you just go for it, and I’ll talk you through.” </p><p> </p><p>With his hands busy, Danny managed to actually follow Tim’s instruction beyond the vague understanding that they were words and they were directed at him. His first attempt to flip one without the use of a spatula was… <em> eventful, </em>to say the least, but by his third attempt he nailed the catch with only minor splatter. </p><p> </p><p>The finished products might not have been the prettiest pancakes on Earth, but by g-d they were <em> finished.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Mostly unburnt, too.” Tim made little effort to hide the teasing in his voice. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try not to let it get to my head.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim snorted. “Yeah, that’s what your ego needs.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll have you know, I—” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Malay.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny took a moment to mentally switch tracks as he hunted down the syrup. “Sorry, didn’t realize.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim waved his fork in dismissal. “No worries.” They both dug in, but after a beat Tim sat upright. “Did I tell you I went to Malaysia for a bit, just a couple months ago?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, you didn’t.” Danny took another bite. </p><p> </p><p>“Right, I was gonna bring it up when we were visiting Mum, but, uh. Didn’t get around to that.” </p><p> </p><p>“She was busy being terrible. It happens.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded in agreement, wincing. “No idea where she got all <em> that,” </em>he continued with another vague wave of his fork. “‘Cause I tracked down some family there, and they were great.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm. We both know my Malay leaves something to be desired, but since a good number of our cousins speak some English, we made it work.” He laughed at some memory. “Turns out my winning sense of humor is genetic, because Mum’s brother, Yusuf? <em> Riot. </em>Even though we could barely talk to each other, he always got one of his kids to translate.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny grinned at the thought. “Bet they loved having to deliver whatever awful dad jokes he made.” </p><p> </p><p>“Pure suffering, I swear.” Tim went to scratch at his throat, so Danny whapped the back of his hand with a syrup-sticky fork.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I know it itches,” Danny said in a solid impression of Tim. “Suck it up.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim shot him a half-hearted glare before continuing. “Kind of terrified to know what you and our cousin Safyia might come up with if you were together — she’s <em> wild. </em>Definite adrenaline junkie.”</p><p> </p><p>“Meaning I need to get there at some point, the sooner the better. Maybe we’ll go skydiving. Maybe we’ll commit a felony. World’s our oyster.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good luck getting out of our gran’s line of sight long enough; the woman is <em> fussy.” </em> Tim shook his head as he took another bite. “I swear, soon as she saw all the scars she decided, <em> this one is a trainwreck and needs my attention at all hours.” </em></p><p> </p><p>With a short laugh, Danny replied, “I don’t think she was wrong.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim went to shove him by the shoulder, but as soon as he reached out, a wince twisted his face and his hand dropped. Concerned, Danny sat forward.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you taken your—”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Dr. Danny,” Tim cut off. The tightness to his voice made it clear he was trying to hold back the urge to snap at him.</p><p> </p><p>Back straight, Tim took some deep breaths, jaw clenched the whole while. Danny’s concern had yet to go anywhere, but now it was joined by confusion visible enough that Tim noticed as soon as he glanced over. </p><p> </p><p>“Hurts like hell, but I’d rather not get pneumonia.” </p><p> </p><p>“Makes sense.” Danny scratched at his palm. Phantom itches on injuries long since scarred over were just as bothersome as their extant counterpart. The inherent lie of it all didn’t make it any less true. </p><p> </p><p>Christ, he wished his mind would stop wandering back to <em> truth </em> and <em> lie </em>like they were concepts that held any meaning. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t obtuse. It was only because of <em> her </em>that he dwelled, he knew that. Knowing an itch was phantom didn’t make it go away, and knowing his thoughts walked a path paved for him didn’t mean he was any less stuck on that road. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that he wanted to believe her when it came to Tim. He didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t want to believe Tim when it came to her, either. </p><p> </p><p>One of them was lying. No way around that. Danny didn’t want it to be either of them, but when given opposing stories point-blank like that, it left no room for mutual honesty. </p><p> </p><p>Danny was so, so sick of not knowing what was real. He didn’t care about things as inconsequential as the dull passage of minutes, or how many surfaces in a room were reflective when he entered as opposed to when he left. Those didn’t matter. Who the people around him were, on the other hand? That did. </p><p> </p><p>Roles made sense. If he knew their role, he knew what they would do and what they would not. If <em> brother </em> was a role of its own, it was nowhere near as tidy as <em> ringmaster </em> or <em> contortionist. </em>Too vague. Too open-ended. Too much room to doubt. Too much space for untruths to fill. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever—?” As soon as the question slipped out, Danny wished he could force those dull, passing minutes backwards. He wished he could bend the clock to his will as easy as he did a song. </p><p> </p><p>Tim set his plate in the sink, then shot Danny a quizzical look. “Have I ever what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Lied to me.” No backing out now.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny…” Tim sighed, but he must have seen in his face that Danny expected an answer. “I’ve known you for damn near thirty years, of course I have. It happens when you know someone that long. Happens more when you grow up like we did and you're the oldest.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh. </p><p> </p><p>“...Okay.” </p><p> </p><p><em> “But </em>I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t tell anyone there your name. I wouldn’t do that.” Tim’s voice was firm as ever. Danny desperately wanted to believe him, but things still didn’t make sense.</p><p> </p><p>“How did she know it, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because they knew from the start.”</p><p> </p><p>Brows furrowed, Danny’s head tilted. “What?” </p><p> </p><p>“Look, them not knowing your name doesn’t make sense. They had to. Nikola, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny scrutinized the certainty on Tim’s face. “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nikola couldn’t have given you any sort of bad association with your name if she didn’t know it,” Tim said as he leaned against the counter. “It wasn’t like she just tied the whole concept of verbal names to whatever she did at the start. <em> Your </em>name was the trigger, and that didn’t come out of nowhere.”</p><p> </p><p>There was quiet, broken only by the bounce of Danny’s knee. It wasn’t like he had any memories to verify that theory — or, if they existed, he didn’t know where to find them.</p><p> </p><p>“I tried to say so on those recordings, but she never let me get very far. Sorry about, uh, all that, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>With narrow eyes, Danny replied, “Are you seriously trying to apologize to me for Nikola’s weird mind games?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Well, when you put it like that—”</p><p> </p><p>“Put it <em> any </em>way, it’s stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, well.” Tim’s attempted retort went no further, and he switched tracks. “Mind games are exactly what she was going for with the names thing, though. I think she was hoping your name was still as bad of a trigger as it used to be. That’s all it was. She knew from minute one.”</p><p> </p><p>He paused for a long moment, face conflicted, before going on. “I actually tested that theory at one point. I don’t think it was something she sent you all, but stop me if you’ve heard this one before, right? </p><p> </p><p>“I made some show of… breaking, I guess.” He shot Danny an attempt at a smile. “Not sure if you know this, but I could make a damn fine actor. I made that whole production and all, but I told her your name is David.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dad’s name.” Danny’s voice was quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“First thing I thought of. I didn’t think they’d buy Farah, anyway, so that leaves Mum out.” Tim’s arms crossed over his chest. “It was the first one I said that wasn’t some joke or reference or anything, but Nikola didn’t even seem like she noticed —- just acted like I said Luke Skywalker again. That’s when I knew. She had a name she was waiting for, and that wasn’t it.”</p><p> </p><p>Now that Tim said as much, it felt obvious. It wasn’t as if he reacted badly to <em> any </em> name, no matter what. His namesign might have gotten a pass by nature of being nonverbal, but <em> Leo </em> never would have worked. <em> Danny </em>and its various iterations were what hurt. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did she even ask you, then?” Danny leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on the table.</p><p> </p><p>Tim took his own seat once more. “You know her better than me, but I think it was for… this.”</p><p> </p><p>“This?”</p><p> </p><p>“You not knowing who you can trust.” If Tim was hurt by Danny’s uncertainty, he hid it well. “She was probably hoping that you’d take it as bad as you did at the very start, and come back just to make sure it wasn’t said, by me <em> or </em>by her.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s fingers dug into his folded arms. “Probably would have, if it was still that bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Chalk up another win for slapdash exposure therapy, I guess.” </p><p> </p><p>With a short laugh, Danny nodded. There was no heart in the sound. “That explains Nikola, but…”</p><p> </p><p>“But not the contortionist.” Tim’s acting faltered as his voice gained a dark undercurrent. “I don’t know if she knew it from day one, or if she got it from Nikola later, but she did <em> not </em>get it from me.”</p><p> </p><p>He said her role like it was the worst of insults, and his voice carried the pride of a caged animal describing the scars it left on its captors — <em> You may have me, but I will never make it easy for you.  </em></p><p> </p><p>But Tim said he didn’t see her much. Anything she learned was likely secondhand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Your brother is very chatty once you put him to the irons, my love. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That didn’t mean she was there for it. That didn’t mean she heard him say a single word. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe… Maybe Nikola told her, and said that she got it from you. The contortionist wouldn’t know any better then.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t reply, only watched Danny with a sort of melancholy that made Danny’s gut twist.</p><p> </p><p>He knew it was improbable. He knew he was scrambling. He knew he hated himself for each word.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” Tim didn’t believe that in the slightest. Danny wasn’t sure if his concession was kindness or resignation. “Whether or not Nikola told her or she knew from the start too, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell anyone your name, <em> ever.” </em> </p><p> </p><p>Brows furrowed, Danny could only study him, searching his face for exceptions.</p><p> </p><p>“And if you don’t believe me, that’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>It was the same as when Tim had sworn he would never hurt Danny, right after his own escape from the troupe. Giving in would have hurt as much as a strike. More, even. If Danny could believe anything, it was that Tim wouldn’t hurt him. Ever.</p><p> </p><p>Unless, as he’d said then, he needed to in order to save his life. Danny thought he could let that slide. </p><p> </p><p>“But no more lying. Okay?” Did asking that somehow negate the trust Danny had just given? Should he take it back? </p><p> </p><p>Before he could decide either way, Tim nodded. He didn’t hesitate, but after a moment a strange look crossed his face. “Are we counting lying to yourself, here?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Nothing.” Tim’s expression didn’t change. “Just… people don’t have to lie to you to be dishonest, Danny.” </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a huge leap for Danny to realize who Tim was referring to. He said nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Silence settled in the kitchen like an unwelcome guest. When Danny stood at last to wash the dishes, even the noise of the sink couldn’t chase its weight away in full. </p><p> </p><p>People didn’t have to lie to be dishonest. Danny knew that. </p><p> </p><p>He also knew that trusting her kept him in one piece. How many shows did they do together? How many times was he guided by nothing more than her words in his ear, her hand in his? If she was dishonest then, he would have gotten injured — more injured than the unavoidable scrapes and bruises that came with a dangerous show, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>The unavoidable, she helped tend to until whatever strange sort of healing that came with the place finished its work. He trusted her with that as well, and she never failed him. </p><p> </p><p>He also trusted her to help Tim in the same way. She did not.</p><p> </p><p>Nikola was an imposing presence, and there was no doubt she was near Tim most of the time he was there. The contortionist might never have gotten an opportunity to help the same way she did Danny. That made sense. That soothed absolute confusion whirling in his head. </p><p> </p><p>But Nikola didn’t send her plummeting from the rafters with sharp edges between her fingers and teeth.</p><p> </p><p>That, <em> that </em>made no sense. It was a piece of a puzzle that fit nowhere in Danny’s constructed picture. </p><p> </p><p>Where was the line between trying to understand and building a safer falsehood? </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know. He truly, truly didn’t know. </p><p> </p><p>With the sink off, silence once again settled over them, dense as lead. Tim looked up from where he’d been staring at his folded hands. </p><p> </p><p>“Want to get destroyed at <em> Mortal Kombat?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny’s brows rose. “You still own that?”  </p><p> </p><p>“I am <em> hurt </em> that you think I’d throw out such a <em> classic.” </em>Tim pushed himself up from the table. “Let’s see if losing a few rounds makes you feel any better.” </p><p> </p><p>Were this four years ago, Danny would have no idea how losing to his brother for the millionth time would make him feel better about anything. It was fun, sure, but not what he’d call <em> relaxing.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Now, as he smacked a laughing Tim with a pillow while yet another death sequence rolled across the screen, he was glad to be proven wrong.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>  </p><p>With as much care as he put into keeping track of the thing, Danny wished he was surprised that days passed before he remembered he needed to return Tim’s ring. The chain he’d strung it on sat on his bedside table, right where he’d left it the night they got back. He should’ve known that taking it off would mean forgetting it existed. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing for it but to hand it over now, then. Better late than never. </p><p> </p><p>It was only when he paused halfway down the hall to work at the necklace’s stubborn clasp that he realized there were multiple voices coming from the living room. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I knew already none of them were human, but it was still weird.” Tim. “Like, they were moving and talking and all, but they weren’t… <em> alive, </em>I guess?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like zombies or something?” Basira, to Danny’s mild surprise. </p><p> </p><p>“No, more… Okay, the whole place has beaten the marionette thing into the ground, but it was like that. Moving plenty, not alive.”</p><p> </p><p>“Weird.” </p><p> </p><p>“Weirder was how easy it was to forget.” </p><p> </p><p>Maybe eavesdropping was shitty of him. Danny could feel bad about it later. </p><p> </p><p>He heard fabric shift, like Basira was adjusting how she was sitting. “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Part of it was having to remind myself every so often, <em> hey, if you kick this stuffing thing in the dick, it’s not gonna do anything.” </em> Basira snorted at that, and Danny suppressed his own humor. “But it was also how they’d seem human, and then one of them would— would pull off their own damn arm or something, and my brain would smack the <em> things are wrong </em>alarm.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny knew what he was talking about, of course. The transition from trying to understand to realizing the futility, and later <em> embracing </em>the nonsense of it all, was not a smooth one. </p><p> </p><p>“Makes sense.” A pause. “I remember when we went after Rayner, I knew it was going to be dark, but knowing what’s coming and actually being in the middle of it are way different. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see. That didn’t mean I was ready for what it was like to <em> not </em>know.” </p><p> </p><p>For a brief moment, Danny wondered why it was Basira that Tim chose to talk to about all this, but it only took a moment for it to click. Sasha had always been the objective sort too, hadn’t she?</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Obviously Danny’s different now, too, but he’s nowhere near all <em> that.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny wondered if Tim would still say that if he’d watched how much reality had warped in and around itself in that bank, ages ago. He wondered what Tim would make of the sorts of injuries Danny had walked off while with the troupe. Certainly not things a <em> human </em>could, at any rate. </p><p> </p><p>And that was just what he remembered. Who knew what strangeness hid in the colorblurred years?</p><p> </p><p>Tim had the same thought, but from a different angle. “I had to put up with it for a week, but he did for <em> years. </em>I almost feel bad that I’m—”  A sigh cut off whatever point he’d intended. “I just left him there.” </p><p> </p><p>He should have guessed it would come around to this. Of course it would. He should have said something sooner. He should have cut it off before now. He should have been ready for it. </p><p> </p><p>Basira struck first. “You blame yourself for everything that happened to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I stopped looking, Basira. I gave up, and the whole time he was in <em> hell. </em> Everything they did to him, every way they hurt him — there’s no way that’s not my fault.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny never thought he would have cause to argue the same point with both Tim and their mother, but here they were. Just like he had with her, he wanted to shout that even if Tim had known he was alive, even if he looked every minute of every day, it would change nothing. Assuming Danny was dead made <em> sense. </em>He might as well have been. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh, no, I’d say the fault lies pretty firmly with the ones who hurt him.” </p><p> </p><p>G-d bless Basira. Maybe Danny wouldn’t need to come out of hiding at all. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you get some hit on him while he was there that I don’t know about?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you get up on that stage and make him all ringmaster-y?” Even with the uncomfortable twists in his chest, Danny had to stifle a laugh at her awkward wording. </p><p> </p><p>“No—”</p><p> </p><p>“So cut out the self-blame. Stop acting like you’re the one who held the knife, or the rope, or <em> whatever. </em> If you keep running on nothing but your own guilt, that’s when you <em> will </em>hurt him.”</p><p> </p><p>A lot more succinct than Danny would have put it. Good. He could duck back into his room until Basira left, and no one would be the wiser.</p><p> </p><p>“I might as well have not even gone to Covent Garden the first time. All it did was give me some chance to help I was never gonna take anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>Or he was going to give himself away now.</p><p> </p><p>“If you didn’t come back, I’d be dead.” </p><p> </p><p>“Convenient timing,” Basira said flatly as he came into the living room. Danny ignored her. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, I thought I was dead when I was on that stage. It wasn’t until I heard you that I remembered who I was.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“That part came back when we were visiting Mum.” Just as it had then, thinking about that particular night made fear collect in quiet threat at the edge of his mind, but he held it back. “I could feel my heart racing, but I still thought I might be dead. I know it doesn’t make sense, but none of it does.”</p><p> </p><p>“So it <em> was </em>you, there. Not something pretending to be you.” By Tim’s face, Danny could tell he was taking the exact wrong things from the new insight. “It was you, and I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up and <em> listen </em> to what I’m saying. Stop assuming.” Frustration chased away fear. “If you had done <em> anything </em>else, you would be dead. I’d also be dead, probably. You showing up meant I remembered that I was alive and I wanted to stay that way. You staying where you were meant I could.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know that—”</p><p> </p><p>“I think if anyone does, it’s him,” Basira interrupted. “Just a guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny took the armchair opposite Basira so he could look Tim in the eye. The guilt had yet to budge. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘I’m just… sick of not being able to stop things before they happen, I guess. You. Sasha.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Between the other night and now, Danny had yet to learn how to turn back time. He could do nothing to fix either Sasha’s or his own fates.    </p><p> </p><p>The future was not set in stone. Nothing was inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Good thing we’re gonna stop the apocalypse, then. Plenty of death we can cut off at the pass.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim huffed a short, dry laugh. <em> ‘Guess so.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>After a nod of approval at Danny, Basira checked her watch. <em> ‘I need to head out. Daisy’s been on post in Great Yarmouth for a few days.’ </em></p><p> </p><p><em> ‘On post?’ </em> Danny asked. Her signing took him off guard — he'd almost forgotten she knew it.</p><p> </p><p><em> ‘Rotating watches. We don’t know when they plan on moving next, so she and I have been trading out,’ </em> Basia answered. <em> ‘She </em> <em> goes for longer shifts than me, but even she’s got limits.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Do you need—’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Basira cut Tim off before he could finish his offer. <em> ‘You, Danny, and Jon aren’t going anywhere near there ‘til we get a better handle on what the plan is.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘But—’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘No.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded despite his sigh. It was a reasonable caveat, even if Danny knew Tim must feel a bit useless. </p><p> </p><p>After pulling a couple books from her bag and setting them on the coffee table, Basira stood.<em> ‘There’s those. That was the last of the ones you read, right?’ </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Yeah. Sorry, I know you just came to give them back. Didn’t mean to talk your ear off. Or sign, I guess.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Danny glanced over the covers — they were the same he’d seen both of them bent over at the Institute, all by that Hassan guy. Cult recovery stuff. Weird. </p><p> </p><p>Weird in concept, not in context. It made sense, but knowing Basira read all these dense texts purely because of how fucked up Danny was felt strange. </p><p> </p><p>Distracted as he was, Danny missed the quick goodbyes between Tim and Basira. It was only when he shifted to lean back into his chair that the ring and its chain grabbed his attention as it slipped from his hand. The metal had gotten warm enough that he’d forgotten it was even there. </p><p> </p><p>“Dammit.” He leaned over to scoop it up, then held it out the chain towards Tim. </p><p> </p><p>The corner of Tim’s mouth quirked up. With a ridiculously posh tone, he said, “‘You offer it to me freely?’”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Danny groaned. “I’m banning any more <em> Lord of the Rings </em> references for the next <em> year.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Cruel. At least lighten the sentence to six months.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll see. I didn’t even know you finally got around to watching those ‘til you made that Faramir joke.”</p><p> </p><p>“Blame Martin.” Tim snagged the chain from Danny’s hand to tug the ring free, then slipped it over his finger. “Y’know, it felt weird without it, but now that it’s back, it also feels weird.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could take it again.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not taking the <em> precious.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny rolled his eyes. “You can’t be Galadriel and Gollum.”</p><p> </p><p>“Says you.” Tim kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. “We’ve got two weeks, we should marathon those.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only if you have the extended editions. We’re not doing it by halves.”</p><p> </p><p>“First you think I’d get rid of <em> Mortal Kombat, </em>then you think I don’t have the extended editions,” Tim sighed dramatically. “It’s like you don’t even know me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Danny got up and started towards the kitchen. “I’ve got popcorn duty.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim cheered. Considering how difficult it was to watch movies with other people, Danny wouldn’t argue the sentiment. Neither of them could keep themselves from talking the whole way through — insufferable, yes, but they’d each long since given up on trying to cut that particular habit.</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t need to stifle themselves at all, now. No, they had something far more important to worry about: finding who could recite more of the opening monologue off the top of their head, and lording it over the other the rest of the night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks was a much longer time than Danny thought it had any right to be, and a trilogy of movies could only carry them so far, extended edition or not. Tim mentioned that he was going to suggest going rock climbing or something one of these days, like they used to every so often, but he didn’t think they let guys with cracked ribs belay. </p><p> </p><p>It was for the best — Danny didn’t know for sure how he’d be with heights, but he imagined it wouldn’t go well. Too many minutes spent on a tightrope. Too many moments spent falling. </p><p> </p><p>Day by miserably slow day, Tim kept his mask at the ready despite how much further it crumbled with every reapplication.</p><p> </p><p>Danny, his audience of one, was getting a little fed up. They’d promised no more lies, hadn’t they? </p><p> </p><p>Maybe confronting him in the middle of the night was a poor plan, but they were both awake for a reason. Sleep was evasive, and even if they managed to get any, it wasn’t often restful. Danny hadn’t needed to talk Tim through waking from a nightmare like Tim had for him a few times. Here, now, he knew better than to think that meant Tim’s own were mild. </p><p> </p><p>They sat in silence in the kitchen, Danny with a half-finished hot chocolate, Tim with a blank stare. The room was dark, only broken by light spilling through the open doorway from the living room. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'How’re you doing?' </em> Danny knew Tim wasn't about to bother with hearing aids this time of night.</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s thin smile caught dim lamplight on the horrible shades of yellow and green lacing his bruises. <em> 'Just tired.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Stop doing that.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Doing what?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Pretending you’re fine.' </em> An encore of the same conversation wouldn’t help either of them.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Look,' </em> Tim signed as he sighed. <em> 'You have plenty of your own stuff to deal with right now, you don’t need—' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'That </em> stuff <em> is why you need to cut it out and talk to me about whatever happened.' </em> Danny wished he could keep himself from smiling as he signed in return. A losing battle on any day. <em> 'I know what it’s </em> like, <em> Tim.' </em></p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t describe the way intrusive thoughts struck with a force that left him breathless, or how even the mildest of possibilities would snowball into their own fresh hell if he spared them a moment’s thought. All that would do was force Tim to open up out of guilt. No, Tim had more than enough of that already despite Danny’s best efforts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'You’re not going to talk to Jon about any of this. Basira’s good, but she doesn’t understand it. She’s too— too linear. Black and white, light and dark, all that. Jon’s the same way. He at least knows how it all spins there, but like I said: you won’t talk to him.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Long silence. At least Tim wasn’t reiterating that he was<em> fine, just tired </em>for the millionth time. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'I hated that part most. All the spinning, I mean.' </em> As Tim grimaced, the low light brushed across his brow and cheekbones in harsh contrast and left the hollows around his eyes that much darker. <em> 'If it even had some kind of— I don’t know, internal logic, that’d be one thing, but it’s all just…' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Strange?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Suppose so,' </em> Tim agreed with a flicker of humor. <em> 'How the hell did you cope with that?' </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny let the warmth of his mug sink into his skin for a beat before letting go so he could reply. <em> 'I didn’t think about it. Any of it. It didn’t take long for me to learn not to ask questions — they were pointless. None had answers. Why does the room look different every time I blink? Because it does. How can this person walk around with no head? Because they can. Why doesn’t anyone have a name here? Because we don’t.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'One way to do it, I guess.' </em> Tim shifted where he sat. <em> 'Remember how Nikola said in that first recording that I ‘wouldn’t be bored’, all sinister? Complete lie. I spent a lot of time trying to decipher how any of it worked, but I didn’t get very far.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'No surprise there. I think… I think I did the same thing, at the start?' </em> Danny signed, uncertain.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Considering how fast you get bored, probably.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'True.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Should he be uncomfortable talking about this? It seemed like the kind of thing he should have some instinctive need to avoid. Shouldn’t it make his heart pound? Shouldn’t it make his stomach twist with sugar and rot?</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Eventually, you get to a point where you forget that there was a time things didn’t work like that,' </em> Danny went on. <em> 'You don’t question it because there isn’t any reason to. Things work the way they do because that’s how they work.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Like…' </em> Tim’s brows knit, considering. <em> 'Like when you’re a kid and you don’t wonder why a balloon floats? You don’t know about air density or helium. You just know it’s a balloon, and balloons float.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim was no stranger to how much Danny thought in analogy and images. With how analytical he could get, Danny wasn’t surprised he’d managed to offer such an apt one right out of the gate.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Exactly. You </em> have <em> to start thinking more simply, or your head explodes.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded, tracing the wood grain of the kitchen table with an absent nail. Danny took one of the stools at the counter. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'It’s weird that…' </em> A pause of quiet disbelief, then Tim continued, 'This <em> is our life, y’know?' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Right.' </em> Danny took a drink. He could tell Tim wasn’t finished, and merely needed an affirming reply so he knew someone was paying attention. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'I mean, that’s been the thing that got me the most before all of this, when it was </em> just <em> worms and corridors and whatever else.' </em> He grimaced. <em> 'Weird that those feel so small now.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Compared to everything else, it makes sense.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Yeah, I guess. That’s been the thing in all those statements, how it’s all just— just one wrong door, one wrong conversation, </em> <em> one wrong trip, and suddenly your life’s off the rails.' </em> A heavy sigh. <em> 'Or you’re dead.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'Yeah.' </em> Danny could argue, give some chipper reply about how Stokers were too stubborn to die or something, but that was as far as could be from what Tim needed.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'I mean, I— I’ve got a first in g-ddamn </em> anthropology <em> and I spent a week kidnapped by an evil demon circus. That’s our life. That’s how it works, now.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'I didn’t exactly get a first in ringmaster-ing.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s laugh was a short, jagged thing. <em> 'Sure didn’t. Meanwhile, this time four years ago I was gunning for that promotion to literary scout. Wonder what my past self would say if I could go back and tell him, 'Hey, you’re gonna spend a week in a wax-museum-ish place getting tor—'' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim went still, body frozen mid-gesture. Danny's brows knit.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Tim?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Wow, that’s, um.' </em> He shook out his hands. <em> “That’s what happened, huh?”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> '...Yeah.' </em> For as much as Danny wanted Tim to talk about it all, he wasn’t sure how to reply. <em> 'But you got out.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'No, I know, it’s just— I mean, it’s not like it was some kind of, of thumbscrews and waterboarding bull, like a Bond movie or something, but—' </em> Tim’s knee bounced where he sat, and he ran a hand down his face. <em> 'It still </em> was. <em> That, I mean. Weird to think about.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'I’m sure, yeah.' </em> Meaningless words.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Kind of preaching to the choir here, right?' </em> Tim pushed up to stand with a broad gesture at Danny. <em> 'G-d knows you’ve got more right to feel weird about that part of it than me.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Stop doing that.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Doing <em> what?” </em>Spoken, now. Tim only looked at Danny for a brief moment before he turned away, eyes flitting around the kitchen. His fingers drummed without pattern against his leg. </p><p> </p><p>Danny waved to get Tim's attention long enough he could respond. Tim could speak knowing Danny would still hear him, but unless he wanted to go get his hearing aids, he would have to actually make eye contact. <em> 'Comparing us. Me going through my own shit doesn’t mean you didn’t go through any yourself.' </em></p><p> </p><p>“But—” </p><p> </p><p>'You’re <em> the one Mum and Dad kicked out, but you still thought I should go to therapy too. This is the same thing.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> 'It’s </em> really <em> not. That was—' </em> Tim’s hand swiped through the air. Harsh fire splintered his words. <em> 'That was trauma, sure, but normal trauma. Shit, but </em> normal. <em> All this is just—' </em></p><p> </p><p>His fingers pushed back into his hair as he paced, pulling it even further out of the braid that had already half-fallen apart. Manic. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'This is it! This is our life, and we get to deal with it! I— And you, you— </em> Both <em> of us got pulled into that place, </em> both <em> of us got t—' </em> Again, he stuttered over the same word that’d snagged him before. <em> 'And we’re supposed to just— just keep going like nothing happened. Day in the life of the Stokers. Fuck.' </em></p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t like Danny could argue. He didn’t recoil in the same way to the fact that this was the path their lives took, that it was<em> them </em>it happened to, but he could only assume it was because he spent so long being told it was meant for him. Bad in its own way, probably, but it made it all easier to swallow. Tim didn’t have that. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'No one expects either of us to just get over it, Tim.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim barked a laugh. <em> 'Not right now, sure. Give it a month. Then we can </em> both <em> be the guys having the extended public breakdowns over </em>nothing.'</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'It’s not the same thing. With this, I don’t think—' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'If you don’t think being </em> slowly eaten <em> by </em> worms <em> counts as torture just as much, you can fuck off. </em>' The anger in Tim’s signing wasn't aimed at Danny, even if it burned just as hot in its misdirection. Danny knew better than to take offense. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'I didn’t say it wasn’t, and anyone who does is an idiot.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> 'You’d think that’d be obvious, but no! No, soon as it’s only scars, that means it’s over.' </em> Tim’s nails dragged over his skin. Scratching. He finished with speech. “No dramatic scars to show for this one, so that’ll mean people will forget even faster, even if they were both—” </p><p> </p><p>Hands once again scrubbing over his face, Tim halted where he stood. “Maybe I should’ve just put in a request for the g-ddamn thumbscrews, then people might give a shit.” </p><p> </p><p>The vicious humor to each word stung. Misdirected again. Still sharp. Still not the time to tell Tim off for it. He’d never split on Danny before, and Danny didn’t intend to trigger that now of all times. </p><p> </p><p>He waited to reply until Tim uncovered his face. <em> 'I don’t think any of them are going to forget any time soon, but if they do, you can be damn sure they won’t make that mistake twice.' </em> Considering how much the others had worked to find Tim, not to mention the tapes, they more likely than not had little to worry about there.</p><p> </p><p>Still, a small chance wasn’t the same thing as<em> no </em> chance. It’d take a single talk with Danny to make their mistake <em> very </em>clear to them.</p><p> </p><p>The anger twisting Tim’s features had yet to fade. Danny recognized a mask when he saw it, and this one was no stranger on his brother.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Christ, I just—' </em> Another loose, meaningless gesture. <em> 'What did we do wrong, y’know? What the fuck did we do that we could </em> possibly <em> deserve this? Whole time I was there, they wouldn’t shut up about everything that happened to you, and you got some exciting mixtapes about my time.' </em> Sarcasm flooded in torrents from his name for the recordings. <em> 'What the fuck did we </em>do?'</p><p> </p><p>Keeping any reaction to that new bit of information off his face took no small effort. They’d told Tim about Danny’s own time there? How much? How often? How<em> detailed? </em>Was any of it things Danny didn’t even know about, locked away in his own head? </p><p> </p><p>Questions he couldn’t ask. Not now. Maybe not ever. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'Like you said before.' </em> His mug was ice cold at this point, and Danny wasn't sorry to let go so he could answer. <em> 'There’s not some grand plan. Or if there is, I don’t think we’re exactly keystones. Sometimes it’s nothing besides the wrong place, wrong time.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim shook his head in faint disbelief, anger at last slipping to reveal something far closer to exhaustion. Not the sort sleep could mend. <em> 'Yeah. Nothing we could have done. Just… inevitable.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Part of Danny was tempted to argue that — life with someone as unpredictable as Nikola made inevitability a laughable concept. If it brought Tim some odd sort of comfort, though, Danny wouldn’t complain. </p><p> </p><p>Inevitable. They just had to weather the storm. Danny didn’t understand in full, but he could see how it might appeal. </p><p> </p><p>Tim slumped back to sit, this time at the other stool next to Danny with his face propped in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>Quiet, dull, endless minutes ticked on. No telling what the next ones would bring.</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t know what prompted the next thought. It was hard to question that when he was already nudging Tim to get his attention.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'You don’t have any major scars from all that or anything, but y’know what we could do?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t say anything, only raised one brow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Tattoos.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Silence. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my g-d.” Tim lowered his head enough to rub his temples.<em> 'I take back everything I said about you being different than you used to be. You’re the same idiot.' </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Hey, hard for anyone to miss those. And they look better than scars.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim rolled his eyes, but Danny caught the barest hint of a smile.<em> 'Ask me again when it’s not four in the morning.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Calm settled over them once more. Not all the tension had faded, no. Danny would count any reduction as a win regardless. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'How’re you doing?' </em> he asked with a bit of irony.</p><p> </p><p>Tim shot him another raised eyebrow.<em> 'Tired. Still internally freaking out a little.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em>'Oh, so ‘just tired’</em> <em>isn’t the only response you know to that? I’m shocked. Floored.'</em>   </p><p> </p><p>When Tim elbowed Danny hard enough he almost fell off his stool with a mutter of, “You’re about to be <em> floored, </em> prick,” Danny knew enough to count the fresh ache in his ribs as a win, too.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p><em> “...Tim?” </em> Hearing Abigail Ellison’s voice again after so long, even tinny as it was over the phone, was both somehow refreshing and flat-out <em> bizarre. “What’s up?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim hesitated for a second. “Hey, Abby. There’s not really any smooth way to say this but, uh… Danny’s alive.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Danny chipped in to cut down the amount of time she was left to assume Tim had lost his mind.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Abby.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...Oh, my g-d.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that was my reaction too,” Tim replied. </p><p> </p><p>Danny shoved his shoulder. “No, you thought I was an imposter and went all Batman growl on me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>Abby was still silent. Whoops.</p><p> </p><p>“You there?” Danny asked.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yeah, I just— You’re—” </em> More silence. <em> “You— Wow, you’re, um. You’re alive! Holy shit, right?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Pretty much.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “What </em>happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim met his eyes with an unspoken question, and Danny nodded. Same story they gave their mother.</p><p> </p><p>“When he went on one of his urban exploration trips, he was kidnapped.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jesus…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“And about a month and a half, two months ago, the whole group was near London, so he broke out and found me.”</p><p> </p><p>Hearing it described so simply was as odd as ever. Rather than dwell, Danny said, “I’m still deciding who’s gonna play me in the movie. If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m all ears.”</p><p> </p><p>Abby didn’t miss a beat.<em> “Scarlett Johannson.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’s it.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “G-d, though… Are you just, um, making the rounds? Letting everyone know, I mean.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“We’re taking it slow on that front,” Tim answered. “Because the day Ravi knows—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “—will be the day everyone in England knows,” </em>Abby agreed with a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. But we called you specifically because Danny wanted to get a tattoo, and I owe him a birthday present.”</p><p> </p><p>“Saying it’s celebratory feels weirdly grim,” Danny added. “But it’s true. And since yours are good, and with all the, uh… the everything, going to someone I don’t know wouldn’t be great, I don’t think? Oh, also — Tim’s getting one too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I ever decided on <em> that—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I did.”</p><p> </p><p>Abby snickered. <em> “Sounds like you don’t have a choice, Tim. I’m at Misfit Ink these days — we could meet at this cafe not too far from there if you want.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good,” Danny agreed after remembering she wouldn’t see his nod. “Are you free tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Nice to know you’re still impulsive.” </em> Her smile was audible. <em> “My 2PM appointment cancelled on me, if that works.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny glanced over to Tim, who answered, “Should be fine, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Cool! I’ll text you the address. See you tomorrow!” </em> Despite the farewell, Abby didn’t hang up just yet. <em> “I’m really glad you’re </em> <em> okay, Danny.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Especially because I’m funding your next urbex trip, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Abby’s laugh was a little hollow, and Danny winced. <em> “I haven’t gone on one of those trips in a— awhile. You can pay for me and Joy to go rafting, though.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim’s brows went up with a smile. “You guys are still together?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “According to the ring I’m wearing, yep!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Shit, you got <em> married?” </em> Danny grinned. “If you don’t bring wedding pictures tomorrow, I <em> will </em>die.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Dramatic prat,” </em> Abby snorted. <em> “I’ve got another appointment soon, so I really gotta go, but I’ll see you both tomorrow!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>As he’d promised, Danny made sure to let Martin know they needed a hand. He agreed to drive them to the cafe Abby sent Tim without hesitation. </p><p> </p><p>Seeing Jon in the passenger seat was a welcome surprise. Martin claimed it was merely because they were both on lunch and wanted to get out of the Institute for a bit, but based on Jon’s clumsy questions, it was clear he wanted to see how they were doing for himself. </p><p> </p><p>Danny fielded the questions after Tim didn’t answer. The silent treatment didn’t make any sense, but when he turned to shoot Tim a confused look, it was to see both him and Martin openly staring. </p><p> </p><p>“How many languages was that, exactly?” Martin asked with a faint voice.</p><p> </p><p>Tim shook his head. “Uh. I think… four? Maybe five?” </p><p> </p><p>“And Jon just..."</p><p> </p><p>"Replied. Like it was all English. Yep."</p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t much to say to that, though Jon’s stammering gave it a good effort all the way to the cafe. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll text you when we’re wrapping up,” Tim said to Martin as he opened his door. “Wait, let me—”</p><p> </p><p>He tugged out his wallet even as Martin went to wave him off. “You don’t have to—”</p><p> </p><p>“At least let me cover gas money.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really, it’s fine!”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than argue further, Tim pulled out a few bills and shoved them Jon’s way. “Sneak this in his wallet later.” He got out of the car with one last wave before Jon could reply. </p><p> </p><p>Danny waved his own farewell, grinning at Jon’s blank stare between Tim’s recently vacated seat and the money in his hand. “See you later!”</p><p> </p><p>Finding Abby in the small cafe was a snap considering her cloud of tight black curls. She was at a table near the window, iced coffee in hand and knee bouncing.</p><p> </p><p>“Abby!”</p><p> </p><p>Her head snapped up at the sound of Danny’s voice, and both hands flew to her mouth as she bolted to her feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my <em> g-d, </em>Danny!” </p><p> </p><p>In an instant she was throwing her arms around him in a tight hug, one foot stamping in her excitement. Danny grinned so wide his face ached as he returned her enthusiasm note for note. </p><p> </p><p>She pulled back slightly to look up at him. This close, he could make out the small scar under one eye with no trouble. Whenever someone asked about it, she always made up a new story about some dangerous stunt, but Danny would never forget the look on her face after accidentally smacking herself with an oar while out kayaking. </p><p> </p><p>“Abby.”</p><p> </p><p>“Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>“Show me that ring right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Her smile somehow widened as she let go to hold up her left hand. On the third finger sat a thin band of silver that shone brightly against her dark skin, set with two small diamonds nestled against each other. </p><p> </p><p>“G-d, that’s perfect for you.” </p><p> </p><p>The wedding must have been fairly recent if the slightly bashful duck of Abby’s head was anything to go by. “Yeah, Joy picked the best one.” She turned to Tim, but faltered at his state. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Tim, are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Never better,” Tim replied with a finger gun. “Can’t give you the details; they made us sign a nondisclosure for the movie.” </p><p> </p><p>Despite her rolling eyes, she didn't press. Danny could tell the hug she gave him was much more cautious. </p><p> </p><p>Once Danny and Tim got their own drinks, they joined Abby at her table. She pushed her phone over to them before Danny even had to ask, Facebook album at the ready.</p><p> </p><p>His smile as he flipped through was nothing compared to theirs in each photo, no question. The tears in Abby’s eyes from the first picture of Joy coming down the aisle came as no surprise — mushiest woman in the world, he swore. </p><p> </p><p>At one close-up shot of Joy, Danny’s head tilted. She looked slightly different than he remembered. Same soft pink bob, same beauty spot by her mouth, but her jaw looked narrower. He turned back to Abby. </p><p> </p><p>“Did Joy finally save enough for that confirmation surgery she wanted?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah!” Abby nodded. “That’s part of the reason we waited before getting married. She was beautiful before, obviously, but neither of us wanted to have a whole wedding album that just made her dysphoric, y’know?” </p><p> </p><p>Tim smiled. “No doubt. Congrats, Abby.” </p><p> </p><p>She blushed again. Thirty years old, still all fluttery over her wife. Christ, Danny had missed his friends.</p><p> </p><p>“Now that Danny’s not going to die from a severe lack of wedding photos, we should talk about the tattoos.” Abby dug out a notebook from her bag. “What were you guys thinking?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny shrugged. “I like Tim's armband tattoos, so I was thinking something similar to that. Not the exact same, but that concept.”</p><p> </p><p>Something crossed Abby’s face that Danny couldn’t quite read as she glanced at Tim. “You got armbands? Was that after…?” Tim merely nodded.</p><p> </p><p>Brows up, Danny looked between them both. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not all the time, but usually solid black bands like that are for… mourning, or grief.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh. Weird. </p><p> </p><p>He turned to Tim. “You are the sappiest bastard on Earth.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Okay, but I picked something I thought you’d think was cool, and now you want one, so. Maybe sappy, <em> definitely </em>right.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Danny mulled that meaning over. It wasn’t like he was mourning a <em> person </em>in the most conventional sense, but there was plenty he’d lost. “Four bands, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>Abby made a quick note. “How big? Just solid black?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe… Maybe they get progressively thinner as they go?” His chin rested in one palm. “And not solid, no. Cracked.”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, then tapped her pen against her lip. “You could have each be a little more cracked, and the last one broken all the way through.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I like that.” Good symbolism, or something. “And maybe just some kind of blackwork design on that shoulder.”</p><p> </p><p>“What are you thinking for that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, not much.” He shrugged. “Something abstract. Go nuts.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim stifled a laugh as she looked up to stare at him. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You have a good sense of style, so, y’know. Chef’s choice.”</p><p> </p><p>After a moment, she shook her head with clear amusement. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Tim, what about you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, definitely something simpler,” he answered. “If we’re running with the whole armbands thing, maybe… There’s two bands on this side.” He lifted his left arm a few inches as he spoke. “Maybe some kind of pattern in the space between them?” </p><p> </p><p>“Style?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm, something geometric could look cool.”</p><p> </p><p>Abby scribbled a few more notes, then turned the page towards Tim. “Something like that?”</p><p> </p><p>Between two rough bars, she’d sketched a pattern of lines all locked in and around each other. Tim studied it, nodding.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, maybe— maybe not quite as many places where they cross over each other since that gets a little more into Celtic knot territory, but otherwise.”</p><p> </p><p>Narrowing down designs took a half-dozen pages of Abby’s notebook and the better part of an hour, but most of it was spent on simple catching up. Stories. Things Danny had missed. Things the new tattoo would mourn. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have many of his own stories to add, and Abby never asked. Even though there were a scattered few he thought might be safe, who knew if his perception there was skewed? Much easier to roll right along with hers and Tim’s. </p><p> </p><p>Once they’d at last settled on what they each wanted, Abby tucked her pen behind her ear. “Normally after meeting to decide on designs, I schedule another appointment with the client for the actual tattooing, but let me guess: you want to start today.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny grinned at her. “Got it in one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Some things never change.” She tucked her notebook back in her bag. “Misfit’s just down the road if you guys are okay with walking? Sometimes people have trouble finding it, so it’d probably make things a little easier.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like a plan.” Tim stood and stretched. “Let’s go get stabbed.”</p><p> </p><p>The walk was as brief as Abby had promised, thankfully — wearing long sleeves in July was no more pleasant than it was in June, and the tank top layered below only made it worse. Going in Misfit Ink meant plenty of relief with the shield it gave from the sun’s rays, but presented a new problem alongside.</p><p> </p><p>There were others there. People Danny didn’t know. Assuming it’d be empty was stupid, of course it was. This was a place of business. Abby wasn’t the only artist there. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t an audience. They weren’t all just going to watch him or something. No one else was going to pay a second thought to whatever he was doing. </p><p> </p><p>Unless they did. Unless they were interested. He tended to draw eyes, after all. More when he was hurt. He went in knowing this would hurt, of course. Part of the process. He was ready for that. This was different. This was a show. His hurt and his blood made it one, same as ever, and—</p><p> </p><p>And Tim leaned in to bump Danny’s shoulder with his own. “Abby just said there’s a curtained off part towards the back we can use instead of sticking around the main floor. That okay with you?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny blinked with a slight shake of his head, trying to clear away the sudden cottony fuzz. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“No worries,” Abby chimed in. She looked plenty worried despite the reassurance. “This way.” One of the others there shouted a greeting to her, but she didn’t break stride beyond a wave and returned hello. </p><p> </p><p>Tim went ahead first to the chair in the center of their sectioned-off part of the parlor. After a beat, Danny took one off to the side. He still felt a little off-kilter, and based on the way Abby kept glancing at him with her lip between her teeth, it was no secret. </p><p> </p><p>“Probably makes more sense to do mine first, right?” Tim said, drawing her attention back to him. “Since it’s a lot simpler and all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right, it shouldn’t take long.” Abby bent over a counter on the other side of the room, but popped up again a moment later. “Oh, before I forget — both of you come up with a safeword, in case something hurts bad enough you need to stop for a minute. The one who trained me stressed that a lot when I first started, and it’s been really helpful.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim grinned at Danny. “Buckleberry Ferry.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny narrowed his eyes in return. Two could play the obscure reference game. “Longbottom leaf.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my g-d,” Abby groaned. “Never mind. No tattoos for either of you.” </p><p> </p><p>As promised, Tim’s own didn’t take long — not that Danny could give a precise estimate, but it wasn’t so long he got bored. He wouldn’t complain. Abby filled them in on some of the things she and Joy got up to these days, and Danny internally marveled at how simple it was to pick up right where they left off, as if no time had passed at all. </p><p> </p><p>Time <em> had </em>passed, though, and from his skin alone there was no missing that. It was only when it came time to trade places that Danny remembered just what sort of markers he carried. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit, I— I forgot to mention, but there’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“Some scars on your arms, right?” Abby finished. “Tim texted me and let me know! Advance warning though, scar tissue’s a little more sensitive, and it can warp the lines some.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll live,” Danny replied with an absent wave of one hand. “It’s on the underside of my arm anyway, so it’s not like anyone will see the warped bits.” </p><p> </p><p>She nodded, turning away to change her gloves as he stripped off his shirt. The tank top underneath remained as it was — she might be able to take the ones on his arm in stride, but he knew the line up his stomach and chest was far different. More visceral. </p><p> </p><p>He mouthed a quick, <em>Thanks, </em>to Tim for giving Abby the advance warning. Tim gave him a thumbs up in reply. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, so obviously this one’s gonna take a few sessions. We’ll take care of the outlines today. Sound good?” Abby asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good!” </p><p> </p><p>“And your word?”</p><p> </p><p>“Two words, Abby. I can’t believe you <em> already </em>forgot.” </p><p> </p><p>She shot him an unimpressed look. “None of those sounded like <em> either </em>word.” </p><p> </p><p>“Longbottom leaf.” </p><p> </p><p>Snickering, she returned to her stencils. “I can’t believe your word is just <em> fantasy weed.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“You can’t?” </p><p> </p><p>After a beat, Abby shook her head. “You’re right, I take it back. I can absolutely believe that.” She held her tattoo gun up. “Ready?”</p><p> </p><p>“Damn right.” Danny rolled his neck in an effort to shake off the tension in his shoulders. “Let’s get this show on the road.” </p><p> </p><p>Unfortunate phrasing, not that Abby had any reason to know. Tim’s brows knit in mild concern. When Danny waved him off, Abby drew back with a stern look in her eye.</p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re a fidgety guy, but at least <em> try </em>to keep still, or you’re going to end up with a wave pattern on every bit of this.” She leveled a finger at him. “Don’t think I won’t strap your arm down, Stoker.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny’s stomach knotted. It was just a joke. She didn’t mean it. “I’d rather you didn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>For a moment she studied him, clearly thrown off by his weak reply, then her eyes widened as her free hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, g-d, I— I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Shit, I wouldn’t ever do that, I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny set his own hand over hers, pushing on a smile he hoped conveyed some measure of reassurance. “It’s fine, Abby, I get it. I know you wouldn’t.” In the corner of his eye, he could see Tim already half out of his chair, so he waved again. “Seriously. I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Dr. Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wasn’t that my line?” </p><p> </p><p>Danny snorted as Abby went to change her gloves again — touching her mouth and Danny’s hand made the current pair rather moot. “Not anymore, apparently.” </p><p> </p><p>Abby still had the apologetic look in her eye, but she tried for a bracing smile. “Are you ready?”</p><p> </p><p>“Always. Hit it.” </p><p> </p><p>For as much as he had prepared himself for the process to hurt, it wasn’t bad at all. Not <em> comfortable, </em>but far closer to annoyance than pain. Danny wasn’t sure if that said more about tattoos themselves or just his pain tolerance. </p><p> </p><p>Another thing he forgot: blood. Based on Tim’s face when Abby stared at the purple-red blotch on her towel, this wasn’t one he remembered to warn her about.</p><p> </p><p>“Um.” Eloquent as ever. Before Danny could think of how in all hell to continue, she went right back to work. </p><p> </p><p>“You probably wouldn’t believe me,” Abby remarked as if she’d come across nothing stranger than a birthmark. “But that’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen from a client. I had one guy who came in to get a touch-up on an old tattoo, and I <em> swear </em> he must have gotten his teeth <em> sharpened </em>or something! They looked like shark teeth, hand to G-d.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s head cocked. “Begs the question: did he have two rows of them like a shark, or…?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you think I <em> asked, </em>you’re crazy,” Abby laughed. “If this was a horror movie, asking things like is what gets you killed, and if I died like a white girl in a horror, Joy would never let me live it down.” </p><p> </p><p>Easy conversation settled over them once more, like there was never a snag at all. No disquieting scars, no stomach-turning missteps, no <em> wrong </em>blood. Danny could almost believe they were in the past, when his worst scar was nothing more than a short line on his lip from a reckless punch. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was that sudden nostalgia that kept him from protesting when Tim insisted on recreating the picture still on his wall at home, this time with Danny flipping off the camera as Abby worked away, and Tim making that stupid, overdramatic pout. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim turned his phone their way to show them the picture, Abby laughed even louder. </p><p> </p><p>“Times may change,” she sighed with plenty of drama. “But the Stoker boys are still <em> ridiculous. </em>Small comforts.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be here all week.” </p><p> </p><p>Abby raised a brow at Danny. “Have fun paying rent, then.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be here all hour.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim cut in. “How many more sessions do you think he'll need?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm… It depends on how long you’re okay with going, Danny, but the blackwork over your shoulder is pretty big. That’s gonna take a few sessions just on its own.”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’ll tough it out.” Danny shrugged, careful to ensure he only moved the arm not currently in Abby’s grip. “This is just step one.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Last night of their leave. Last night before they would have to return to the Eye. Danny couldn’t tell if his eagerness or his dread were stronger. </p><p> </p><p>Yes, he hated the Eye. Yes, he hated the Institute. He also hated being bored. </p><p> </p><p>He was never bored with the troupe. Plenty of things, but never bored. He should’ve known better than to miss that by now. </p><p> </p><p>He did. Mostly.</p><p> </p><p>Why he thought smoking would help was beyond him. He hadn’t in ages, not since uni, but for some reason an itch long since buried surfaced among it all. Maybe it was because he no longer needed to keep his body in pristine condition, unmarked bar scars meant to serve as bone-deep reminders. </p><p> </p><p>His scars no longer fit Nikola’s stencils. He even had the beginnings of a tattoo. What did it matter? </p><p> </p><p>Sat on the edge of their front porch, Danny traced up the line along his forearm. Some glowing ash fell from the cigarette held between his fingers, but he barely felt heat brush against his skin before the cool night soothed its burn. </p><p> </p><p>Why had he stopped smoking, again? Something to do with whatever job he thought he wanted. He couldn’t even remember what it was, now. </p><p> </p><p>There was plenty he must have wanted back then. Gone. His life had turned to nothing but damage control, putting out fires whenever they flared and praying they didn’t overwhelm him. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t something he was alone in, he knew. He had Tim. He had the handful at the Institute he actually trusted — Martin, Melanie, Basira, Jon. He had Abby and Joy, and plenty of other friends from before who he knew, if he reached out to them, would reach back.</p><p> </p><p>They should be enough. They should be able to soothe the ache of longing for someone he couldn’t have. Why couldn’t Danny just be fucking <em> grateful?  </em></p><p> </p><p>Heat against his fingers. The cigarette had burned down to nothing but filter, but rather than call it a night and return inside, he used the meager remains of flame to light another. </p><p> </p><p>Another question without an answer: why the hell was he still dwelling on this? He wasn’t the one held there the most recently. They got Tim back. He was on the mend. Far from better, but at last willing to actually <em> talk </em>to Danny about it. </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t understand why, every so often, something in his head would shift like a missed step, and he’d feel just as dizzy with <em> normalcy </em>as he did the day he got out. That feeling had faded, at least some, only to kick off again after saving Tim. It didn’t make any sense. </p><p> </p><p>Whether the sound of the door or the flash of the motion-activated porch light startled Danny more was impossible to say, but in any case it made him flinch hard enough he almost dropped his cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” Tim’s voice, of course. “Mind if I join you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim sat next to him. His brow furrowed when he saw the pack sitting on the cement. “Where’d you get that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Popped over to some corner store while you were taking a nap.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’d you get the money?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny grimaced. “Sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>After a breath, Tim waved it off. “It’s fine. Ten pounds isn’t the end of the world.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence settled over them. Smoke twined through the air. The stars here weren’t very bright, not with London’s light pollution, but Danny could see enough to wonder what constellations might be hidden past the veil. </p><p> </p><p>“You alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not really.” Danny took another drag. “I don’t know. Just feel like shit out of nowhere.” </p><p> </p><p>A bit of shifting as Tim propped one palm against the cement. “D’you want to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t even know how to describe it besides <em> shit, </em>so. Makes it tricky.” His jaw ground together in frustration at himself. “G-d, I’m sorry. You’re the one who’s got the most reason to be getting in a state, and I’m over here just…” Just what? Complaining? Dwelling? Making it all about him?</p><p> </p><p>Tim cut in before Danny could voice any of the increasingly-miserable potentials. “You know both of us can be hurt, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I know, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s one of the things Basira got on my case about before you joined us.” Tim’s elbows settled on his knees, hands laced between. “Since she read all the same books I did, she let me have it. All, <em>every one of them talks about how both the person in all that and their loved ones are affected, so even </em>before <em>this happened you were still traumatized, you complete idiot,</em> pulling out plenty of references and everything. She’s hard to bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>“But with all that, it was <em> overall. </em>Comparing each of our own times there, like we talked about the other night.” Danny took another drag, then sighed. “But I wasn’t stuck there this time. We came and got you out. That’s it. I don’t know why I’m so…” The soft buzz of insects filled their quiet as he trailed off.</p><p> </p><p>“You know why, Danny,” Tim murmured. “And I know you don’t want to talk about— <em> her, </em>but if that’s not worth getting messed up over, I don’t know what is.”</p><p> </p><p>With no motion to hold it, the porch light flicked off. The dimming sky washed everything in cobalt.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Danny wished he could blame the roughness to his voice on smoke.</p><p> </p><p>“For what?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t want to still—” Air dragged into his lungs like nicotine, twice as harsh. “She was all I had, but then she… she hurt you. I should be able to just— turn it off, or…”</p><p> </p><p>Tim said nothing as he wrapped an arm over Danny’s shoulders. Even when Danny leaned in, his head hung low.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to be more than this. He wanted to be something more than knotted, lovesick scars. <em> Someone </em>more. He didn’t want to miss her. He didn’t want to see that line across Tim’s throat and wish it was on his own, if only because it meant he had her again for the briefest moment. Because Tim never once deserved it. Because Danny wasn’t sure he deserved anything but.</p><p> </p><p>How could he, when even now he couldn’t bring himself to reject the image of who she was in his head? Who <em> they </em>were?</p><p> </p><p>Two things, he was sure of:</p><p> </p><p>She hurt Tim.</p><p> </p><p>He loved her.</p><p> </p><p>Mutual exclusion would only be fair. Reasonable. Danny had gladly given up any right to fairness and reason a long, long time ago; his debt paid in memories too numerous to count and scar-stuck thread.</p><p> </p><p>As if he could read Danny’s mind — or, if not that, the tears Danny only now realized were on his face — Tim spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s never that easy. I wish it was.” His arm didn’t waver from its place around Danny, no matter how right he would have been to push him away. “I still love Mum.”</p><p> </p><p>The wet noise that tore itself from Danny’s throat was far closer to a sob rather than the sigh he intended. “It’s— How are you not <em> angry </em>at me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would I be angry?”</p><p> </p><p>“She might’ve killed you, Tim! And here I am, talking about how much I miss her!” </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s hand moved to settle between Danny’s shoulder blades, warm and solid. “I’m not going to be angry at <em> you </em>for her trying to manipulate you.” </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t—” The protest fell flat in his throat. She didn’t. He didn’t think she did. She loved him. </p><p> </p><p>Under the weight of Tim’s steady, sad eyes, he couldn’t force out more than two words. It was only because he didn’t want to have the same argument again. That was all. She wouldn’t do that. </p><p> </p><p>...Christ, who was he kidding?</p><p> </p><p>That gold and wine blindfold never left, and still Danny fought like hell whenever Tim so much as tried to point out its existence. </p><p> </p><p>If he was blindfolded, it meant she would come to guide him. He would have her again. She would have him. Things would be okay. </p><p> </p><p>But she wasn’t here. She would never be here. Danny could not stay blind forever. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t speak, not now. Not with burning tightwire around his throat. Not with needle-sharp smoke in his lungs.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes ached. He would keep them shut, just for tonight. Slumped with Tim's arm once more around his shoulders, Danny knew the only thing that could hurt him here was himself. He couldn’t trust himself to <em> not, </em>not when he didn’t know he was doing it until he’d already gouged himself on broken-glass love. </p><p> </p><p>But here, here he could let go. For now. For the night. Soon they’d have to return to the Eye and its Sight and all the things Danny knew he didn’t know. </p><p> </p><p><em>Soon </em>was not <em>now.</em> <em>Now </em>was quiet, cool night air. <em>Now </em>was taking off a blindfold with eyes still closed, waiting to adjust to the light. <em>Now </em>was yet another slow, aching first step, one of hundreds, thousands. He’d never run out of first steps, he didn’t think.</p><p> </p><p><em> Now, now </em> hurt. <em> Soon </em>might hurt too. </p><p> </p><p>Someday, somewhen, it wouldn’t. He had to believe that. </p><p> </p><p>It wouldn’t always hurt, and that meant it was worth doing.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: references to parental and relationship abuse, past manipulation, non-graphic discussion of tim's captivity and interrogation, panic attacks</p><p>want that last scene to hurt even more? listen to alibis by marianas trench and cry with me</p><p>[<a href="https://pin.it/6dsdEjj">also yes i DID snap and make an hlm pinterest board and no i will NOT apologize for that</a>]</p><p>in the wings: writing a script for the final act</p><p> </p><p>  <i>[edited 3/26/21 because this is now a trans georgie house thank YOU!]</i></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. THREE OF PENTACLES</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On survival, sacrifice, and the mutability of fate.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>as you might have noticed, hlm is marked as a series now! it's been the plan for a while, but i didn't want to say as much until i got a few more things solidified. hlm will have a companion oneshot, and there's two more full fics planned for the series itself. these won't be danny-centric, but he'll obviously be a major player! i hope you guys like them just as much &lt;3</p><p>warnings in the end note -- not actually too many this time!</p><p>suggested listening: threshold by go! child<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">playlist so far</a>]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Walking into a building by way of the front door shouldn’t have been a novelty. The route through the tunnels was so ingrained that Danny had almost forgotten that most people didn’t come to work through a network of stone corridors and a door posing as a broom closet. </p><p> </p><p>Danny had readied himself for the same wide berth others usually gave the both of them, but time must have healed a portion of that rift as well as it had the bruises on Tim’s face — none of the polite nods Danny noticed so much as stuttered over what was no more than slightly reddened patches along Tim’s cheekbones. One woman even came over to introduce herself to Danny as Hannah, and though he could see a bit of uncertainty in her smile, her handshake was warm and firm. </p><p> </p><p>“She’s part of the library staff,” Tim explained as they moved on through the lobby. “If you bring her a chocolate croissant, she’ll wave your late fees.” He knocked Danny’s arm with an elbow. “Take notes. You’ll need them if you’re gonna be stuck in here with us.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny snorted. “Elias just wants me on the roster so he can make sure I don’t do anything too Strange for him. If he thinks I plan on doing a damn bit of whatever job he’s pretending he hired me for, he’s gonna be sorely disappointed. I’ll take the paycheck though, if he has to keep paper appearances.”</p><p> </p><p>“Spoken like a true drain on Institute funds.” Tim mimed wiping a tear from his eye. “I’m so proud.”</p><p> </p><p>They passed by the main desk, where a red-haired woman typed away at breakneck speed. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Rosie.” </p><p> </p><p>“Morning, Tim!” The clack of keys paused as she turned towards them. “Oh, hold on! You’re Danny, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, good to meet you.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiled with a short nod. “You, too. I know Elias already approved your application and all, but there’s a few things we need to get squared away. Just a copy of a photo ID, and your NINO. If you have either with you, I can take care of that right now!”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh.” Eloquence in all things. “I don’t have either.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that’s just fine. You can bring them in tomorrow, then.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, I mean I, um…” He looked to Tim as he floundered. He certainly hadn’t <em> applied </em>for whatever the hell Elias decided to list him as, and as far as the government was concerned, he was still a missing person. Christ knew where his wallet ended up when he first went to Covent Garden.</p><p> </p><p>Tim cleared his throat. “He’s a bit of a special circumstance, Rosie. If you want we can talk about the snag and figure out what our next—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, say no more, Tim.” Rosie looked unbothered by the blatant failure to follow hiring protocol. “Elias wouldn’t have approved you as a new hire if he didn’t have some sort of plan in place for that, so we won’t worry about it!” </p><p> </p><p>She opened a drawer on one side of her desk and pulled out a small, round tin. “Either of you boys want a Simpkins?”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until they reached the stairs down to the archives that Tim explained. “Rosie’s been working at the Institute longer than anyone except Elias, far as I can tell, and I’m pretty sure she’s made it this long because she minds her own business to the extreme. Whatever spooky shit happens, she doesn’t want to know. Never heard her ask an unnecessary question in my <em> life.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Huh. She and Abby would get along.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim laughed. “No doubt.” </p><p> </p><p>A yellow door waited at the bottom of the stairs. No sign of Helen, but she was only a knock away. </p><p> </p><p>Danny crossed to it without breaking stride. Tim hesitated as much as he had the first time Helen popped up, but didn’t move to stop him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna head in, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny nodded. “If you need help fielding the wave of <em>welcome back</em>s, just shout.” </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus.” Tim shook his head. “I’m throwing myself to the wolves.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure are. Have fun!” Danny said brightly as he clapped Tim on the shoulder. Tim batted his hand away with a blunted glare, then went into the archives. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t deny apprehension, but Helen came to him rather than the other way around. That had to be a good sign.</p><p> </p><p>He knocked.</p><p> </p><p>A long moment of quiet stretched out as the sound echoed through the hall in all the ways it shouldn’t. Administrative buildings weren’t known for their acoustics. Once it faded, a long, low creak replaced it. </p><p> </p><p>“I was wondering when you would return.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Helen.” Danny offered a smile. “Tim and I were on leave for a bit — this is our first day back. </p><p> </p><p>“Melanie told me as much,” Helen said with a rippling nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Melanie?”</p><p> </p><p>“She answers.” </p><p> </p><p>It made sense. Jon didn’t trust Helen at all from what Danny could tell, and Basira seemed little different. Daisy was a nonstarter. According to Tim, when he was trapped in the Distortion’s halls, he was with Martin. It was reasonable to assume Martin would hesitate to be around her just as much. </p><p> </p><p>But Melanie answered. Probably with some level of fear, but she answered, and unlike Danny, she hadn’t broken any of Helen.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of. “Is it time yet?” </p><p> </p><p>Helen’s mouth curled. “It is if you take it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then… I’m sorry for breaking your mirrors. It was an accident, but that doesn’t make it harmless.” Stilted, no doubt, but Danny had little to go on here. How were apologies meant to be phrased for damage on a supernatural level? It wasn’t like he’d ever heard any. “Are they all healed, or are some still damaged?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re loud, not cataclysmic,” Helen replied. “It took time and sacrifice, but everything is as it wasn’t again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sacrifice?” </p><p> </p><p>Helen’s face didn’t falter, but the air around her buzzed with a high, electrical hum. “I took a man.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” It wasn’t a leap to guess what she meant by that. “And it helped?” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny couldn’t quite read the look on her face. Considering the way she rotoscoped, keeping eye contact was enough of a challenge. “What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“He came into my halls. He didn’t leave.” Her head canted to one side. “He never once came close to finding me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did you want him to?”</p><p> </p><p>Her sigh crackled in the air. “I don’t know. There was a chance he might have been a better me than me. Clearly that wasn’t the case, not with how simple he was to consume.”</p><p> </p><p>So Helen had killed a person. Danny wondered what reaction he was meant to have. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you’re better, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>“In a sense.” Saying she sounded forlorn, or upset at <em> all, </em>would be a lie. “I think Helen would feel guilty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you?” Danny did his best to keep any expectation out of his voice. Nothing to insist she should or shouldn’t. The floor was hers.</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t decided. I am Helen, but only in the ways I <em> can </em>be Helen. I don’t know if that’s one of them.” Her glasses reflected a place Danny didn’t recognize. “Your hands are only as clean as your costume. I thought you might understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Not something he’d talked about with any of the others. Helen was right — none of them would get it, not really.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve already changed, while I and the Archivist are both changing. He would understand that, but he doesn’t wish to. Not now, at least. You’re on the other side of it.” Another staticky sigh. “Though I’m on a different road from you both.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think that’s true.” </p><p> </p><p>Helen leaned against her doorframe. “And what do you mean by that, ringmaster?”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon said I’m an avatar, but…” Danny thought for a moment. “I think I’m more like you than he realizes. In what and in who.”</p><p> </p><p>She studied him with fractal curiosity. “You’re Danny, you’ve been Danny, and you will be Danny. I had to become Helen, so I’m not Helen.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I…” He shook his head. “I wasn’t Danny for a while. They all think I was still Danny the whole time, but I wasn’t. Not really. To them, things like that are continuous. You’re you, and you don’t stop being you even if you don’t know who<em> you </em>is.”</p><p> </p><p>“They can’t help being ignorant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. But I <em> am </em>Danny, now. I just… I had to choose to be him.”</p><p> </p><p>A pause as Helen considered that. “Did you want to be Danny?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not at first. That’s why I was Leo for a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“And…” Something flickered across her face. “Did Leo feel guilt for the ringmaster’s actions? Does Danny?”</p><p> </p><p>He knew what the correct answer was. He also knew what the true answer was.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t <em> like </em> that I was a part of something that hurt people.” He didn’t know why he was softening the reality of it with Helen. She might be a being of deception, but he was, too — an amputated piece of uncanny untruths. Who else could he be his most honest with? “Or killed people. I don’t think I ever <em> personally </em>killed someone, but it’s not like I was bending over backwards to try and keep anyone alive.” </p><p> </p><p>No, that was a lie. From the way Helen’s head tilted and form flickered, she knew.</p><p> </p><p>“No one but myself, anyway.” That was what it always came down to, wasn’t it? He wanted to live. He would do what he must to secure that. “And I don’t like that I was a part of it all, or that I chose people from crowds, or <em> any </em>of it, but…” </p><p> </p><p>Helen’s face was not soft or forgiving, but at the same time, there was no judgement. It felt the same as how one wouldn’t judge a predatory animal for following its instincts as it mauled its prey. She knew well how he worked, because she worked the same. “But?”</p><p> </p><p>“But if I could go back, I… I don’t know if I would do anything different.” </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t realized that until this precise moment. He wasn’t sure how he was meant to feel about it.</p><p> </p><p>“And there <em> is </em>guilt.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny sighed. “Yeah. But I don’t know if it’s because people were hurt, or because I know I would do it again. I don’t want to. I don’t like hurting people.” With a thin smile, he continued, “And I don’t want to die. Eventually you decide which is more important, and being what we are skews things a little.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence settled over the hall. Helen looked thoughtful. </p><p> </p><p>“I think Helen would feel guilty. She wasn’t ready to become me. She did anyway.” She brushed a bit of nonexistent dust from her sleeve. “There’s a lot to consider.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got plenty of time.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” False color washed across her clothes. “We have an Unknowing to know, first.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right. I should probably head in there, make sure the others don’t accidentally kill my brother with all the <em>welcome back</em> smothering before we can even get there.”</p><p> </p><p>Helen tapped a nail against her lips. “If you’re as much Danny as I am Helen, do you <em> have </em>a brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“I told you I chose to be Danny.” He shrugged. “And part of being Danny is Tim.” </p><p> </p><p>That sent her into deeper thought than anything he’d said so far. He wondered what sort of things Helen had left behind. What people waited for her? Were they still looking?</p><p> </p><p>None of his business, at the end of the day. She could tell him if she wished.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s that, then.” Helen winked at him as her door creaked open once more. “I’ll be off. You know how to call if you get tired of all those <em> who</em>s and need another <em> what.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Sure thing. See you later, Helen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Likewise, Danny.” </p><p> </p><p>It was only when her door once again ceased to be that he realized she used his name. What that meant in her mind, there was no telling. Like she said: there was a lot to consider.</p><p> </p><p>A lot that, frankly, Danny didn’t feel much up to considering right then — not after the revelations about what kind of person he was drawn one after the next after the next like an endless chain of brightly colored handkerchiefs. </p><p> </p><p>He’d field his own <em>welcome back</em>s, then ask Martin if there were any more statements to preserve. He needed a task he could sink into, one that called for no thought other than what was right in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>Old habits died hard.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Danny woke with a stifled shout at five in the morning, it was a simple matter to decide against some futile attempt to go back to sleep. By the time he actually managed it — if he managed at all — he’d have an hour at <em> most </em>before he had to get up again anyway. It wasn’t worth the effort, nor the backaches from tossing and turning. </p><p> </p><p>Besides, it’d mean that much more time to spend on whether this particular dream took root in imagination or in blocked memories — not a question he was eager to answer. </p><p> </p><p>He was unsurprised to see Tim awake, though normally Tim spent his own interrupted nights reading or watching TV. Simple distraction. Tonight Danny found him sitting in the kitchen, curled over with elbows propped on the table and fingers laced behind his neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim flinched hard, whipping around in his chair to lock wide eyes on Danny. His arms remained held close by his head in defense. </p><p> </p><p>Danny winced. “Sorry. It's just me. I wasn't sure if you'd have your hearing aids in or not." Tim shared his own nightmares as rarely as Danny, but by now Danny had gotten that some left him especially sensitive to being snuck up on. Wearing them through sleepless nights drained the batteries faster than ever, but it was a price Tim was willing to pay.</p><p> </p><p>After a beat, Tim nodded. Still quiet. Danny wasn’t sure what to make of that. Rather than ask, he got a glass of water and took one of the other chairs. Tim's head lowered again. </p><p> </p><p>Danny stayed up so he wouldn’t lay there ruminating back and forth on the potential truth of his dream, but in this quiet he had little else to occupy him. He could go hunt for something to hold his attention, but if Tim broke their shared silence, Danny wanted to be ready to listen. </p><p> </p><p>The whole dream felt plenty real. He didn’t think he could make something like that up. Still, that wasn’t reason enough to assume it happened, or if it did, to that degree. It wasn’t like he had any scars as reference.</p><p> </p><p>He needed a shower. Cold sweat was never comfortable. </p><p> </p><p>Tim had yet to talk, but he also had yet to leave. Showering could wait.</p><p> </p><p>The first edges of sunlight brushed low in the sky, barely visible through the kitchen window. Red. Danny’s first thought was about how appropriate that was for the scene. His second was a powerful urge to throw something. </p><p> </p><p>“I was wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t look up as he spoke with a voice as rough as sandpaper. It took a moment for Danny to realize the words even came from him.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“When I said I didn’t tell them your name. I was wrong.” </p><p> </p><p>It made no sense. Tim’s proof that he hadn’t was solid, not to mention that Nikola would have made sure to deliver any incriminating tape by now. Still, Tim sounded certain — just as certain as he had when he claimed the opposite. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the one who brought up me shouting to you when I went to Covent Garden. Remember what I shouted?”</p><p> </p><p>When Danny had explained his side of it all, he didn’t think about the precise word. To him, Tim’s voice was the important part. That had yet to change.</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t matter.” There was no doubt in Danny’s mind. </p><p> </p><p>Tim lifted his head at last. “There’s no way in <em> hell </em> you can tell me it doesn’t, not when it’s what Nikola used to mess with you this whole time. She got it from <em> me.” </em>He scratched hard at a scar on his wrist. “That part didn’t match the narrative she needed for those tapes, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”</p><p> </p><p>“So, did you forget literally <em> everything else </em>I told you about that night?” Maybe his tone was a little too harsh, but after his shit sleep, he was on edge.</p><p> </p><p>“No, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“If you didn’t come, I’d be dead. If you didn’t say anything, <em> I’d be dead. </em> Of course you shouted my name.” He rubbed his temples. “Not like you were going to start yelling your favorite colors or ABBA lyrics or something. You wanted to let me know you were there and you shouted what pretty much anyone on <em> Earth </em>would.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I <em> still </em>gave them your name, Danny! Let me at least apologize for—”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think I <em> didn’t </em> give it to them? Ever?” Danny retorted. Smiling, of course. “That very first flashback you saw me have, when Elias called me Danny? I shoved it all back down again when I leveled out, but that’s <em> exactly </em> what it was about. Them asking my name, and me saying it over and over until…” One nail tapped the tabletop. “Until I didn’t, anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s jaw went tight as he shook his head, but he said nothing. Danny supposed his obstinance was no surprise, not when the past three weeks of his life were centered around withholding something he only now realized he already gave. That didn’t make it any less frustrating. </p><p> </p><p>“If you hadn’t said it first, Tim, I wouldn’t have been <em> able </em> to tell them myself. I would be <em> dead. </em>End of story.”</p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t working, not when he’d done nothing but repeat the same argument over and over. He needed a different tactic. Danny watched the sky grow redder as he scoured his thoughts.  </p><p> </p><p>“Do you remember the promise you made me when I first got back, and I kept trying to piss you off?”</p><p> </p><p>“That I wouldn’t ever hurt you.” Irony weighed down each word.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. And I said it wasn’t the same thing if you had a reason.” Danny wished he could claim to have shaken that mindset in full. Some days, he understood Tim’s disagreement with little trouble. Others, it felt like absolute nonsense. Nothing for it but time. “And you told me there was no reason I could give you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim kept quiet, watching Danny’s face with heavy bags under his eyes. Part of Danny wished he could just reach into Tim’s head and rip out all that guilt by the root, but he knew that wasn’t how it worked. Attempting to tear something out of a person by force always left remnants.</p><p> </p><p>“When you promised, do you remember the one exception you gave?”</p><p> </p><p>Quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“You would only hurt me if it meant saving my life. That’s <em> exactly </em>what happened, Tim. Yes, my name was one of their biggest weapons. It’s also what kept me alive. I’m not going to let you apologize for that.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim’s head lowered once more, this time propped in one hand. He wouldn’t meet Danny’s eyes. “Seems like a pretty shitty trade, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sighed. “Look, if I learned anything about myself there, it’s that I’ll do a hell of a lot to keep living.” He wouldn’t elaborate. Either those from the troupe had included it in their retellings of Danny’s time there when Tim was captive, or they hadn’t. Danny wasn’t eager to talk about it either way. Tim wouldn’t understand in the same way Helen did. “So, shitty or not, if you told me what the trade was and gave me the choice, I’d pick the same thing in a heartbeat.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence settled in once more as Danny relented. He could reiterate the same points until he was blue in the face, but Tim still needed a chance to process.</p><p> </p><p>Process and, in an ideal world, stop beating himself up. Danny wouldn’t hold his breath. All he could do was hope that the coming days between now and the Unknowing were time enough. He was far too pragmatic to assume any days after were guaranteed.</p><p> </p><p>Danny, Leo, the ringmaster, it was no matter — regardless of who or what, he’d never been a lucky man.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“These are all the ones I could find that seem like they’re related to the Stranger,” Martin said as he set down a box. “But I haven’t gone through the unsorted shelves yet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Place to start, anyway,” Danny remarked. “What are we looking for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Relevant leads, mostly. We have, y’know, <em> that, </em>but we don’t know a whole lot about what things will be like during it all.”</p><p> </p><p><em> That, </em>meaning the plastic explosive they found in Gertrude’s storage unit with the tattered remains of old taxidermy. Daisy apparently knew how to use it — to no one’s surprise — but knowledge meant little without context. </p><p> </p><p>“Got it.” Danny knew plenty about the circus and the troupe, of course, but his unreliable memory plus the sheer number of years it existed before he joined meant far too many unknowns. Unknowns didn’t last long, here. </p><p> </p><p>Danny flipped open the top folder and turned the page. Dead end. No need to read it, then. He set it aside, then gave the next two files the same treatment. It was when he was about to set a fourth on the stack that Martin interrupted. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny, you— you kind of have to… <em> read </em>them?” Martin spoke as if it were obvious, which didn’t make much sense. </p><p> </p><p>He raised a brow. “Those don’t have <em> any </em>leads. I’m not gonna waste time reading them when they don’t go anywhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“They don’t— How do you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>Did they <em> not </em>know? “Um, the second page was upside-down.” </p><p> </p><p>An unhelpful explanation, if Martin’s face was anything to go by. Danny opened a couple of folders to demonstrate. “See, that page is upside-down in all of them. It means there’s not any useful information. I noticed it when we were doing all that file preservation, since we went through so many.” </p><p> </p><p>Still staring. “What about the statements that don’t have a second page?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then there’s not enough information to bother with at all.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin looked from the files, to Danny, and back again. </p><p> </p><p>Danny scratched the back of his neck. “I sort of thought you knew that one.” </p><p> </p><p>“I told you we didn’t know anything!”</p><p> </p><p>“It just… seemed obvious.” </p><p> </p><p>After another dumbfounded moment, Martin shook his head. “Well, it wasn’t. Let me just—” He crossed to Jon’s office door and knocked. Jon emerged before long, confused and plainly disgruntled about the interruption, but came over to the table Martin and Danny had commandeered regardless. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny figured out part of Gertrude’s code!” </p><p> </p><p>Jon blinked, then his brows furrowed. “What did you find?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um. I just noticed that when a statement’s second page is upside-down, it means that it’s all dead ends.” He pushed forward the same stack he’d presented to Martin. </p><p> </p><p>The sound of rustling pages filled the air as Jon flipped through. “...And it’d look like nothing more than sloppy filing.” He sighed heavily, eyes shut. “Meanwhile, I’ve just been flipping them around again under that assumption.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny went back to the box of statements, but Jon didn’t let the matter lie.</p><p> </p><p>“How did you figure that out? I spend all day going through the damn things, but I never noticed that,” Jon groused. His petulance sounded far more directed towards himself than Danny. </p><p> </p><p>Shrugging, Danny answered, “I’m used to things not having <em> any </em>sort of pattern, or line of logic, or anything like that. They stick out a lot more by comparison.” He could make some point about how the human mind was built to find patterns, but that wasn’t much of a going concern for him.</p><p> </p><p>Jon sighed. “Yes, that makes sense. You’d think the Eye would give me <em> some </em>sort of guidance.” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I think the Eye gives you as much personal guidance as the Stranger does me,” Danny replied as he returned to the task at hand. “So, none. Maybe someday you and the Eye can be pen pals someday. Build that bridge.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Would the Eye even <em> have </em>pens?” </p><p> </p><p>Danny grinned at Martin’s question. “Let’s see if it has <em> hands </em>first, then go from there. Pretty hard to use a pen otherwise.”</p><p> </p><p>“How eldritch are the entities, anyway?” Martin flipped through another folder, far more breezy than when he thought he’d have to trudge through each one from beginning to end. “Because if they’re full Lovecraft, they probably have a whole lot of— I don’t know, tentacles, or something.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think using a pen with tentacles would be <em> easier?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s easier than with just a big, floaty eye.”</p><p> </p><p>“Point.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon shook his head. “I think if we’re going completely eldritch, it’d much prefer to communicate in ominous tomes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Very true.” Danny tossed another dead-end statement to the side. “So we’ll keep watch for ominous tomes that have little checkboxes about whether you <em> like-like </em> the Eye as your warlock patron. One box for <em> yes, </em> another for <em> also yes.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He could practically hear Jon roll his eyes from where he sat. Martin lowered the folder in his hand. “Was… that a <em> Dungeons &amp; Dragons </em>reference?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not that you can prove.” Damn, he would make a hell of a dungeon master now, though. </p><p> </p><p>“Prove it after work hours,” Jon cut in as he set the statements Danny gave him back on the table. “Has anyone seen Melanie? She stepped out to take a live statement, but I don’t know if she’s finished yet.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin shook his head. “I haven’t. It wasn’t too long ago, though. Do you want me to check?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go,” Danny offered as he stood and stretched. He could use the walk. “Where is she?” </p><p> </p><p>“I believe she went to conference room B.” At Danny’s blank look, Jon elaborated, “Second floor, just across from the stairs.” </p><p> </p><p>“Got it. Back in a bit!”</p><p> </p><p>Danny took the steps two at a time — no urgency, only a whim. With legs as long as his, why not? </p><p> </p><p>No sign of Melanie or the statement giver from his quick glance through the window set into the door, so with some effort to keep quiet, he opened it and poked his head in.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie sat at the conference table, close enough to the front wall she wasn’t visible from the hall. Next to her was a man with scruffy blond hair and a thin cane tucked next to his chair. A large black dog, maybe a Labrador, laid on the ground at his side with a red harness identifying it as a service dog. Its owner must be blind, if Danny had to guess, which explained the need for a live statement. </p><p> </p><p>“It was really confusing,” the man said. “I mean, I was still scared and all, but something about this guy was <em> different. </em>Way different from the robbers.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie wore an odd expression — eyes wide, fingers curled and pressed to her mouth. She looked like she was trying to hold in laughter. As soon as she saw Danny, that same hand flew up to wave wildly towards the door in a clear sign that he needed to leave. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Danny started. “Jon just wanted to see if—”</p><p> </p><p>Before he could finish, the statement giver sat bolt upright and turned towards him. “You— You’re the guy! The bank guy!”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie’s eyes screwed shut in a hard grimace. She must have put the pieces together long before Danny showed up. </p><p> </p><p>Thinking fast, Danny lowered his voice and held further back in his throat. “The what guy?”</p><p> </p><p>The man faltered. “Or— Um, you just— You sounded like someone else for a minute. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>As much as the man’s laser focus on him faded, Melanie’s multiplied. Her eyes went perfectly round as she stared at him with jaw dropped. Danny attempted to follow her nonverbal request as the man continued giving his statement to their ever-hungry recorder, but she fixed him with a glare and pointed at the ground. </p><p> </p><p><em> Stay, </em>she mouthed fiercely.</p><p> </p><p>Danny raised his hands in a universal sign of confusion. <em> Why? </em></p><p> </p><p>Rather than reply, she glared again. Danny knew better than to argue. </p><p> </p><p>Hearing a statement about himself was among the weirdest things he’d experienced at the Institute, which was a hell of a claim. To his uncomfortable relief, the man didn’t sound like he thought Danny was some kind of monster or something. Unsettling, yes, and not quite human, but not malevolent — towards the hostages, at any rate. It was probably the best he could hope for.</p><p> </p><p>“I have no idea what the others there saw. The music and words were weird enough,” the man continued. “Horseshoe got pretty agitated, but she stuck close.” At her name, the dog’s ears pricked, but she remained still by her owner’s chair.</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s first thought was to wonder if it was as much stuffing and string as every other animal he was used to, a question he dismissed out of hand. No circus, no taxidermy. The next was a strong urge to pet her, which he also set aside. She was very much alive, and very much at work. </p><p> </p><p>Also, considering she was there at the bank, she might not like him getting closer, to her or to her owner. No reason to add <em> distracting and scaring an on-duty service dog </em>to his list of sins. He could appreciate how sweet she looked from his place against the wall. </p><p> </p><p>If Melanie’s face was anything to go by, he should get a lease for this square foot of linoleum. He wasn’t going anywhere. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what happened to him after he said that weird goodbye. The police interviewed us and everything, but it sounded… cursory, I guess?” The man fiddled with the handle of his cane. “Like they were just doing it out of protocol. The— the guy? The thing? The <em> whatever </em>was long gone by then. It still doesn’t make any sense to me, but I thought there was a chance you’d know more.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got a few guesses.” Melanie shot a pointed look at Danny. Danny shrugged. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Oh, okay! I— I didn’t really expect, y’know… that. Since the Magnus Institute is—” </p><p> </p><p>“Crackpots, yeah,” finished Melanie without a shred of hesitation. The man laughed nervously.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”</p><p> </p><p>“I would.” </p><p> </p><p>The man’s brows furrowed. “Is any of this supposed to be… reassuring? That you’ll figure out whatever it was and— and fix it, or whatever you people do.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny spoke up with the same altered voice he’d used before, layered with plenty of reassurance. “Don’t mind her, she just hasn’t had lunch yet. Hangry, right? We’ll look into it to the best of our ability.” </p><p> </p><p>Again, Melanie stared with flat disbelief. She managed to scrounge up a reply of her own despite it. “Yeah, we’ll find Mr. Bank Man and give him a stern talking to.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny flipped her off, and she visibly held back a snicker. The man seemed a bit more at ease, unaware of their bullshit. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, well. Um. Good, then. Is that all you need from me?” </p><p> </p><p>“We should be sorted. Let me just…” Melanie hit the stop button on the recorder. The man got to his feet with his dog promptly behind, and Melanie did the same. “I’ll walk you to the entrance, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Appreciated.” The man nodded at Danny with a smile that didn’t quite hide his remaining unease. “Lovely to meet you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise.” Danny made to slip out behind them and return to the archives, but Melanie turned and pinned him with that same glare and another firm point at the floor beneath his feet. </p><p> </p><p>Danny was no stranger to blowing off given direction when it suited him, especially around here, but he wasn’t eager to cross her when she had that look in her eyes. He had no idea what part of this got her so worked up — not that she was short of options. No doubt that she’d be <em> delighted </em>to share. At length.</p><p> </p><p>Lovely.</p><p> </p><p>Danny entertained himself by humming under his breath, and when that failed to hold out, tapping nonsense rhythms on his leg and the wall at his back. He considered seeing what things in the room he might be able to make temporarily interesting (anyone who said they liked beige linoleum was a liar and would thank him for the change), but that brought too much risk of irritating Elias. Danny didn’t have the energy for weird verbal chess matches unless necessary. Beige linoleum didn’t make the cut. </p><p> </p><p>Unless Melanie took too long. Then it might.</p><p> </p><p>By some miracle, she came in right as he was trying to decide if he should try and make all the furniture seem just a <em> bit </em>too small. She didn’t hesitate to level a finger at him as the door slammed shut behind her. </p><p> </p><p>“What the hell was that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, you could be referring to a lot of things right now, and all of them are fair.” Danny continued over her sputtering. “But was that dog’s name seriously Horseshoe?”</p><p> </p><p>“That is <em> not </em>the point right now!” she exclaimed with a sharp gesture. “How the hell did you do that with your voice?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, lower it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wh—” Another dumbfounded wave. “No, not <em> lower </em> it. You just— you sounded <em> exactly </em>like Tim!”</p><p> </p><p>“I did?” Weird. He supposed it wasn’t too much of a surprise that he defaulted to a voice he knew. </p><p> </p><p>She nodded emphatically. “Like, if you told me you were lip-synching to some recording, I’d believe it.” </p><p> </p><p>“So…” Danny made the same adjustments he had before — lower, throaty. “Now I sound like—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “No, </em>nope, absolutely not,” Melanie bulldozed through his half-finished imitation. It sounded like a complete shutdown, but after a beat, she squinted at him. “Can you… do mine?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, your voice?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, my nails,” she said with a roll of her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Danny’s brows went up, and he fought down a grin. Her voice was a little higher, held in the back of her mouth rather than her throat. Easy. </p><p> </p><p>“My name is Melanie King, and I really <em> could </em>use that manicure.” An uncanny copy down to the cadence. </p><p> </p><p>She gaped at him a moment. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second, what the <em> fuck.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Call it like I see it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dick.” Arms folded, she remarked, “You’re like a— a parrot or something.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny straightened with a bright look. “Did you know corvids are also some pretty intense mimics?” </p><p> </p><p>“What, like crows and ravens?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but also magpies, jays, jackdaws, and a ton of others. Crows were always my favorite, but it’s funny how out of place bluejays look with the rest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like that<em> Addams Family </em>episode where they have the normal baby?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny laughed. “Yeah, like there’s a whole family of goths or whatever, and then this little preppy one, it’s great.”</p><p> </p><p>“If a bird could wear a sweater vest, I think bluejays would be the first up,” Melanie mused.</p><p> </p><p>“For <em> sure. </em>I used to be really into corvids when I was in secondary school — y’know those stories people tell of feeding some crow regularly, and it always coming back to them? I’d always go to the park near where my dad lived for a while looking for any around there to try and find one myself.” He’d biked there every day for a solid month with scraps of deli meat and the like, listening hard for that distinctive croak. </p><p> </p><p>Leaned against the wall, Melanie picked at her nail polish. “Any luck?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he sighed. “They’re native to the UK year-round — carrion crows, anyway — but right when I found one and started trying to get it to trust me, my dad moved. If I had, though, it’d probably still remember me. Ravens have a monopoly on puzzle-solving and all, considering they can solve things not even monkeys can, but crows’ facial recognition is <em> incredible. </em>They take longer to get to trust you than ravens do, but they’ll also remember you way longer. Hell, they’ll even spread the message if you mess with them so other crows know to avoid you — or attack you, even. It’s interesting too, because, um…” </p><p> </p><p>Danny trailed off with a grimace. “Sorry, didn’t mean to ramble. I just… really like crows.”</p><p> </p><p>Brows raised, Melanie looked up at him, and he studied her face. Was she annoyed? He wouldn’t blame her. </p><p> </p><p>“No, I— It’s fine.” She cleared her throat and shifted her weight, but didn’t take the opportunity to flee. “You said magpies are corvids too, right?” </p><p> </p><p>Hesitating, he nodded. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you know what the <em> hell </em> is up with the whole ‘swooping season’ thing in Australia?” Her eyes went wide as she gestured broadly. “Like, do magpies just decide, <em> Time to dive-bomb humans again </em>once a year, or…?” </p><p> </p><p>After a pause to try and judge if her interest was some sort of forced attempt to placate him, he launched into an explanation of magpie breeding season, aggression levels, their relationship with humans, on and on in a snowball that he knew must be much longer than it felt. The amount he remembered surprised even him, but he supposed it made sense considering the nature of ADHD and hyperfixations. </p><p> </p><p>At a natural break between thoughts, Melanie cut in. “Okay, so you do the whole magpie mimicry thing, but if you start swooping, I’m calling… Who do you even call for that?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny grinned. “Sounds like a challenge to me. Better figure it out before I— I don’t know, jump off the lobby balcony at people or something.” </p><p> </p><p>“Terrifying.” Melanie picked at her nails again, which Danny was beginning to realize was less a sign of disinterest and more a need to move her hands. “I think… I think the ones to call would be <em> us, </em>which is even more terrifying.” </p><p> </p><p>“What are you gonna do about things people call you for? Unless there’s a secret Ghostbusters squad or something no one told me about.” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie shrugged with a vague look. “Take notes. Hope no one dies.” She raked a hand through her hair. “G-d, this place is useless.”</p><p> </p><p>“D’you think that’ll be the plan for the Unknowing?” Danny mimed holding a notebook and pencil with a serious expression on his face and Jon’s voice in his throat. “Nikola, please outline your terrible goals. For the record.” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie cracked up. “Can you do Elias? I’m <em> begging.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s come to my attention that you wish to stop the end of the g-ddamn world,” Danny mimicked with painfully stiff posture. “But I’m quite busy being a prat, so I’m afraid I will be unable to help in literally any way.” </p><p> </p><p>“Martin, do Martin!” She was almost wheezing at this point.</p><p> </p><p>“Do <em> what?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Both Melanie and Danny startled to see the man himself in the door of the conference room, brows sky-high. </p><p> </p><p>Only one way to recover, here. “You look peaky,” Danny told Martin in Martin’s own voice. “Can I get you some tea?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fractions of their plan for the Unknowing passed around through euphemism, or nods to the tunnels where they could avoid the Eye. In the end, keeping the explosives a secret was more trouble than it was worth. As long as Martin remained behind to carry out some light arson and distract from Melanie’s skulking around Elias’s office, that was all the subterfuge they needed. </p><p> </p><p>Skulking to, apparently, find the recording that caught Elias killing a man with a pipe. His three-piece suit and clean hands were as much a costume as anything one of the troupe wore.</p><p> </p><p>Danny knew he’d be useful in helping with that redirection and keeping Melanie’s work shielded, but his role was never meant for the Institute. That came in the side of their plans they were able to speak plainly about. </p><p> </p><p>“We won’t be in there long once it begins,” Jon said to the room. “Between Danny and I, we’ll be able to find those inside, get their attention, and lead them out before the second phase is enacted.” Meaning, before Daisy hit the button to detonate. “It’s of course dangerous, but considering the circumstances, we don’t have much in the way of options.”</p><p> </p><p>They all sat around the same conference room table where Danny found Melanie a couple days ago, with Daisy on speakerphone from her place staking out the museum. Danny shifted forward to lean on the cheap wood. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re going to be way too obvious inside. I know there isn’t much we can do about it, since you’re the only one who can find the sigil on the exit, but you should stay by the door. I’ll be able to find you.” Danny thought for a moment. “We’ll get the backup costumes first, then the audience.” </p><p> </p><p>“The people kept as backups, you mean,” Martin said neutrally.</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Danny resisted the urge to chew on his nails. “I should be in costume, myself. The jacket and all. I’ll blend in better, and the people — backups and audience — will probably listen to me more then.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira studied him. “Are you gonna keep it together? Being there <em> and </em>wearing that.”</p><p> </p><p>He almost laughed. Inappropriate, no doubt. Not like that ever stopped him before. “Ideally.”</p><p> </p><p>“I should be able to help as far as clarity goes,” Jon added, tugging on his shirt sleeves.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Assuming you can find him.” </em>The phone speaker softened Daisy’s voice in a way Danny knew she would hate. </p><p> </p><p>“I— I mean, the sigil is enough of a tether that I’ll be able to find my way—”</p><p> </p><p>“Your way to <em> it, </em>not around the Unknowing,” Danny interrupted. </p><p> </p><p>Jon pursed his lips. “We’ll have to manage somehow. Elias seems to think I’ll have some ability to See inside, which the mark may be intended to bolster along with its role as a beacon.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, you’re missing a pretty significant resource. I amp up the Stranger, you get a chance to learn how to See through it.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like… Unknowing <em> practice?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Danny did laugh at that. “I guess so. It’s going to be a hell of a lot stronger there than anything I can do, but it’s still practice. Anything’s better than nothing.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s worth trying,” Jon agreed after a pause to consider. “But it should be controlled, somehow.”</p><p> </p><p>"Right, so—"</p><p> </p><p>“High score!” </p><p> </p><p>“Nice!” </p><p> </p><p>Cheers broke through their conversation. Danny turned just in time to watch Melanie and Tim high-five. Basira was rubbing her temples.</p><p> </p><p>“Score, what—?” Jon asked, already put out. </p><p> </p><p>Melanie held up a turquoise notepad bearing a row of distinct tally marks. “Seven languages! In, what, thirty seconds?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded, grinning. “Martin told her about when Danny hit five in one go when talking to you—”</p><p> </p><p>“I am <em> not </em>part of this!”</p><p> </p><p>“—So she and I were waiting for the next run and: high score. There was definitely German at one point, no idea about the rest.” </p><p> </p><p>Basira cut the celebration short. “Make a roster later. I don’t like Jon and Danny being there alone. Danny, when you go for the audience, you’re going to make yourself a massive target. Getting their attention means whoever from the troupe is there will see you. Nikola, too. You need someone with you.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny shook his head. “Anyone else inside won’t be able to comprehend anything. I know how to handle it, and Jon has a leg up with his Eye abilities.”</p><p> </p><p>“During the escape after we got Jon, you did something to make yourself more clear.” An impressively minute detail in the chaos to notice, moreso to still remember it. “And it wasn’t just you being more disconnected from the whole circus — you were still thinking of yourself as the ringmaster then.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t do that for the whole <em> Unknowing, </em>Basira, especially when I’m also pulling the audience to listen. That’s a hell of an ask.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t relent. “But you <em> could. </em>Not for the whole thing, but enough that someone could stick near you as a guard.”</p><p> </p><p>He held back another laugh. That position would no doubt be one of the most dangerous — smack in the center of the Unknowing, without any supernatural abilities, and no way to see through the unreality outside whatever assistance Danny’s split attention could manage. </p><p> </p><p>“What, are you offering?”</p><p> </p><p>“If that’s what it takes.” Before Danny could reply, Basira turned to Jon. “Can you do the same thing through the Eye?” </p><p> </p><p>Jon tugged on his lower lip as he thought. “I’m honestly not sure. We could try that after Danny and I practice improving my own Sight.” </p><p> </p><p>“If that works, you need a guard, too. Daisy?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Roger.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lovely ideas, yes, but ignorant ones. “Basira, you and Daisy being guards is a nice thought, but what do you think you can do against the whole troupe if they come for me, or for Jon? They have strength in numbers that we don’t,” Danny pointed out. “And I’m fast, but I can’t dodge hits for the both of us.” </p><p> </p><p>“The reason Jon could finish carving that sigil the first time is because I distracted most of the troupe.” Tim flipped a pen in the air and caught it again. “I don’t know how specifically that’d work here, but if I can get into that position again—”</p><p> </p><p>“That ended with you kidnapped, Tim.” </p><p> </p><p>Even at Martin’s reminder, Tim didn’t budge. “Doubt that’s a going concern this time around. They’re not going to bother with captives.” </p><p> </p><p>“What, like that’s better?” Melanie snapped. There was an uncomfortable, prickly energy to her. </p><p> </p><p>“If you know another option, just shout.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim was oddly composed. Any other day, Danny would expect him to match Melanie’s fire note for note, but now he remained matter-of-fact. Danny couldn’t place why, but something about it put him on edge. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Playing distraction doesn’t work as well with that many coming for you.” </em> Daisy was just as dispassionate. It sounded far more natural from her. <em> “Better for them to be contained somehow.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“You guys don’t get it.” Frustration built in Danny’s chest and crept into his voice. “It’s not as simple as just locking a door to keep them trapped in some room. Literally <em> nothing </em> will act like you think it will. Walls won’t be solid. Locks won’t mean anything. Even things like <em> physical space </em>will be different.” </p><p> </p><p>His arms folded across his chest. “And that’s assuming you still understand what any of those things are, or how they work, or that they <em> exist. </em>Letting yourself believe any of this will be straightforward is signing your own death sentence.”</p><p> </p><p>Bleak silence settled in. Though Danny and Jon could attempt to hold onto the others’ grasp of reality, at the end of the day, it was two of them versus the full power of the troupe. Danny could use their own abilities against them, and Jon could counter them in every way, but it would never be enough.</p><p> </p><p><em> “So we should leave the audience as is,” </em> Daisy concluded. <em> “Getting the group backstage out is possible, getting them isn’t.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Martin startled with an incredulous look at the phone. “What, and just leave them there to— to get <em> skinned, </em> or whatever else the circus might do? Just because it’s <em> hard?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “If this doesn’t work, a lot more than that’ll die.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“But we’ll keep trying to figure something out as long as we can,” Basira finished; an afterthought at best.</p><p> </p><p>Another lull. The air felt dense with disquieting truths and static. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait…” Danny barely caught Jon’s mumble even from just across the table. “Wait, if I…” Jon bolted upright in his chair, every part of him humming with tension. “Melanie, can I see your notebook?”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie raised a brow with her mouth drawn to one side, but she slid it across the table to him. He tugged her pen from the spiral binding and flipped to a fresh page.</p><p> </p><p>“The— The sigil, it’s a beacon, yes, but—” Pen flew across paper as Jon scribbled away. “But if there’s <em> multiple, </em>then I think it could serve as a barrier. It allows me to See, and the Eye is the Stranger’s antithesis. This would be like putting it under both a net and a microscope. Pinning it in place.” </p><p> </p><p>He held up his page. It was far from a masterwork, but it did the job well enough. Three headache-inducing marks formed a triangle, one by a rectangle Danny assumed represented their exit, and two others sat equidistant at opposite ends of the page. A dotted line connected them all. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re getting there before the Unknowing begins to find those kept backstage, yes? In that time I could carve two more sigils, and leave the original unfinished.” Jon’s voice came at a rapid, urgent pace. “Once things begin, Tim — if I can figure out how to help anyone else See, at any rate — gathers as many of the troupe in pursuit as he can and leads them to me. I’ll also be a target by nature of my position as Archivist. When most are inside this area, I redo whatever parts of the sigil they cut away, thus closing the net.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira tugged the notebook over to scan it as if it were some detailed tactical layout. “It’s not going to hold them forever.”</p><p> </p><p>“It shouldn’t have to. Just long enough that Danny can guide the audience out.” Energy lifted Jon’s voice. “Plus, adding more of the Eye’s power here might weaken the ritual as a whole.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Or </em>the ritual might prevent those barriers from forming at all,” Danny countered. He didn’t like shooting down every plan, but someone had to pull the loose threads.</p><p> </p><p>“True, but…” Jon swallowed, studying the page in front of Basira once more. “I don’t see another option.”</p><p> </p><p>A fair point. Something was better than nothing. </p><p> </p><p>“So altogether,” Basira said. “We have me and Danny collecting the people trapped and getting them out, Tim getting as much of the troupe as he can in pursuit, and Jon and Daisy at the back door ready to finish the last sigil and trap them.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim sat forward. “What are we doing about Nikola? Doubt she’ll fall for the distraction side of things.”</p><p> </p><p>Scratching absently at a scar on the base of his palm, Danny said, “If I play along with the show for a bit and act like I changed my mind about everything, she’ll think it’s entertaining, whether she believes me or not. Playing along is the only way I’ll be able to actually get in front of the crowd at all.”</p><p> </p><p>He could tell the others were thinking the same question Basira had voiced earlier — would he be able to keep it together? Keep <em> himself </em>while flooded with the Stranger’s influence, wearing his old costume, and fully embracing his old role as ringmaster? It was all to a different end now, but there was no telling whether or not that would matter to him in the thick of it. </p><p> </p><p>Like Jon’s side of the plan, there was only so much they could do about it. Limited options. Limited time. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll keep hidden, then,” Basira replied after scrutinizing his face. “Until they figure out that you’re not actually back on their side.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” She’d managed that well enough when on the mission to get Tim. The bright lights and chaos would give her even darker shadows to hide in. </p><p> </p><p>Jon looked over the room once more. “Is that everything, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I wish we could find <em> something </em>in the statements about the last attempt at the Unknowing,” Martin said with an irritated crease between his brows. </p><p> </p><p>“Gertrude figured out all that about the gorilla skin, so she had to know something, but it’s <em> nowhere,” </em>Melanie agreed. “Even just something about what it all looked like would be nice.” </p><p> </p><p>Tim leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t surprise me if she hid that one somewhere weird.” </p><p> </p><p>“I already checked the compartment in the archive floor.” Jon smoothed down a sticker just below the grip of his cane — a small bi pride flag, it looked like. Incongruous with the stuffy scholar look Jon attempted, but most things he did were. “Nothing there.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, the <em> what?” </em>Martin’s voice shot up at the end as he stared at Jon. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, um. The compartment. In the archive floorboards.” Jon cleared his throat. “Where Gertrude hid things.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira joined in Martin’s staring. “...Right.” She looked over the table once more. “Anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>It was then Danny chose to at last acknowledge the elephant in the room.</p><p> </p><p>“We should talk about how destroying the circus will probably kill me.”</p><p> </p><p>Each word fell like a counterweight. The curtain rose, and his audience was silent.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie broke first. <em> “What?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I was part of it for a long time.” For how numb he felt, his explanation came with surprising clarity. “You’ve all signed a contract here. You know how it works.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look, we— we don’t know that for sure.” Martin’s eyes darted between Danny and Tim. “I mean, you left, right? I don’t think we have any reason to assume your life is still tied to it.” </p><p> </p><p>It was Jon who argued next — though, to Danny’s faint surprise, it was directed towards Martin. “...Actually, there is some evidence.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie glared. Martin remained wide-eyed. Basira merely watched. Calculating. </p><p> </p><p>Danny did not look at Tim. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny, you— Not long after you left the troupe, you asked me about the physical changes you noticed. Wounds that cracked, and slight changes to the color and consistency of your blood.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Still numb.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not <em> certain,” </em> he said, tone betraying his absolute certainty. “But I believe it’s due to another form of assimilation into the troupe beyond the usual method of skinning and stuffing; one through exposure rather than an immediate adjustment. Daisy, you mentioned you believe there are others in the troupe that are more… <em> biological, </em>yes?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mm.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“This would be those. Had we not intervened, Danny would have likely moved further away from standard biology until he was as much marionette or— or whatever else it may be, as anyone else in the troupe.” Just like when he first told Danny about his distance from humanity, he sounded grieved. Danny was far less inclined to disregard him, now. “It’s a change four years in the making, and though it was interrupted, that tie may still be there.”</p><p> </p><p>As much as he loathed to admit it, part of Danny had hoped his suspicion was wrong. It was faint, yes, but still extant. He’d endured on less. </p><p> </p><p>Now? No options. No time.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t dwell. His autopilot defaulted to <em> survive, survive, survive, </em> and here he didn’t know what that would mean. He had to stay focused on the immediate. This was to save the <em> world. </em>Surely, his own life was worth that.</p><p> </p><p>A noble thought. If he were a noble man, it might’ve been enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny’s not going to die.” There was no heat to Tim’s voice. No argument. Statement of fact, nothing more. “How many cars are we taking this time?”</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, Tim brushing the possibility to the side made survival-panic wash that much further up Danny’s throat. A corner of his thoughts clung to the old childish assumption that if his older brother said it, it must be true. He couldn’t afford that. If he kept that hope, he would fight for it. If he fought for it, there was no telling what casualties would follow. How many people at this table might he sacrifice to stay alive? </p><p> </p><p>Here, now, he could say <em> none, of course not, never, they’re my friends. </em>When it came down to the wire? When adrenaline shut down all but instinct? He didn’t know. Admitting even that much to himself made him nauseous. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim.” It took Danny a moment to realize he was the one who spoke. “It’s possible. I—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not dying. Two cars is probably easier. I can drive one.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin and Jon exchanged a look, and Martin leaned in. “Tim, we should probably talk about—”</p><p> </p><p>Tim stood — abrupt, but with no tension beyond mild annoyance. “If you want to waste time, sure. Call me when we get around to something conducive.” </p><p> </p><p>When the door shut behind him, it was merely that — shut. Not slammed. Everything from Tim’s stride to his tone was the picture of neutrality. </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t look up from his folded arms. He couldn’t name the feeling twisting his lungs and throat. It burned, he knew that much. </p><p> </p><p>The eyes of every single person in the room locking onto him burned more. They didn’t seek entertainment, but they expected a show nonetheless. Distress, panic. Maybe shouts. Maybe tears. A performance of fear and hurt and <em>g-d,</em> Danny was sick of giving those. </p><p> </p><p>He left, then. If anyone called after him, he ignored it. He didn’t know what he was even looking for, only that he needed out of that room and away from its ceaseless watching.</p><p> </p><p>Cool, dark stone welcomed as he dropped through the trapdoor into the tunnels. He didn’t remember his walk here, but it wasn’t as if it mattered. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he sank down to it with his back against the wall. </p><p> </p><p>Danny was going to die. That was it. </p><p> </p><p>A low groan of wood couldn’t pull him from tracing the scars on his palms with his eyes, over and over and over. When Helen sat on the ground next to him, his head stayed low. </p><p> </p><p>She asked no questions. He gave no answers. Their silence was enough.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Saying Jon looked uncomfortable would be an understatement. He fidgeted in one of the desk chairs, eyes flicking around the room as if he expected circus music and unreality to start bleeding from the walls. </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing there, of course. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>“Some ground rules would be wise, I think.” Jon plucked at the threads of his cardigan, anxiety highlighting each motion. His voice carried with ease through the otherwise-empty archives — when the others heard that he and Danny were going to try pushing his Sight today, they needed no convincing to clear out.</p><p> </p><p>Danny raised a brow, but gestured for Jon to continue.</p><p> </p><p>“We begin small, of course, and build up.” No argument there, not when Danny already intended to. “And maybe a— a signal if things get to be too much, and we need to pause.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s a very <em> Eye </em>way to do it.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Isn’t that the point?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the opposite of the point,” Danny countered with a smile. “You’re learning how to use the Eye in the thick of the Stranger, not brush off the Stranger while it follows the Eye’s rules. If we do this the Eye way, you’re going to fail.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon tugged a little too harshly at one string and pulled it from the knit into a stretched, out-of-place loop. “And if I<em> can’t </em>see past a particular thing? What then?”</p><p> </p><p>“You hope you’re a fast learner.” With a last rap of his knuckles on the desk, Danny stood. “Ready?”</p><p> </p><p>“I assume my answer means little,” Jon replied stiffly.</p><p> </p><p>“Now you’re getting it.” He stretched, then leaned back against one of the shelves. “Like you said, we start small.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, he began to hum under his breath. Jon’s eyes went back to darting around the room, hunting for whatever change Danny might pull out first and unaware he’d already missed it. </p><p> </p><p>The quiet dragged on, until eventually Jon asked, “What song is that?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny smiled again. “What song?” Even as he spoke, the music continued.</p><p> </p><p>Grey eyes went narrow. Puzzled. “The one that— You’re humming it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t talk to you if I was humming, Jon.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well— no, but… But you have to be, because the music is still there.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, so… It has to come from somewhere if I can hear it.” Jon set his jaw. “But just because I hear it, that doesn’t mean it’s real.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny pulled back and let each note fade from the air. “Right. That one was easy, but it’s going to be the core of all of this. Things will be <em> wrong. </em>Getting stuck on how it doesn’t make sense and freezing is what kills you.”</p><p> </p><p>He could outline all the ways he’d learned that particular lesson; map scars that didn’t exist. A tear here, a slash there. Hard to dodge when trying to make colorfog fit a meaningless reality.</p><p> </p><p>Hearing the ways others learned something never imparted any knowledge by its own right. Experience was the only teacher that mattered.</p><p> </p><p>Which was why, as they spoke, Danny pulled on a new cord. Reflections built on the shelves around them, on the desks, on the walls. They built, unless they’d always been there, and still Jon was thinking of music.</p><p> </p><p>That would be the next thing that killed him: his one-track mind. Danny slipped between two shelves in the archives while Jon chatted away with a mirror.</p><p> </p><p>“Right, yes. I remember that while we were there, music meant things were about to get… well, strange.” Jon cleared his throat. “I could never quite tell what instruments even made it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Jon, who are you talking to?” His voice echoed through the room.</p><p> </p><p>Jon blinked. “I— I’m talking to you, obviously.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” Further between the shelves. “And who would that be?” </p><p> </p><p>“I… You ought to know who you are,” replied Jon, comically unaware of the irony.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, sure. Do you know who <em> you </em>are?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course I do.” He sounded belligerent, now.</p><p> </p><p>“And?”</p><p> </p><p>Another blink. He turned in place, at last noticing the way things around him reflected in and on themselves. “I’m— I’m me, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“Marvelous. Who is <em> me, </em>exactly?” No helping the laughter in his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“Well— I don’t—” Eyes shut tight, trying to remember. “I am… I am <em> me, </em>and that means I’m…”</p><p> </p><p>“Tick tock, come on.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re running out of time.”</p><p> </p><p>Eyes snapped open just the same. “Time? Time for what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Always the question, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “What </em>does that mean?” Frustration, now.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, come on!” More snaps. “Who are you? Where are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m— I don’t—” A deep breath. Another. Good. He was forcing himself to remain calm. “I’m in the— Here, I work here, and I—” </p><p> </p><p>“You have no idea, do you? Do you have a name? Did you ever?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap. “Come on, then!” Snap. Snap.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop <em> doing </em>that!” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you know I’ve done anything? You don’t even know who I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I do. I do know you.” Even with everything so wrong, the words were corded with conviction. Very good.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you do? That’s funny, it really is. Do you know <em> anything?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“What, I— Of course I do, I know—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap. “You still don’t know your name, or where you are. Could you figure out even <em> one </em>of those?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m— This place is—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop <em> doing—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Then <em> stop </em>me.” Snap. There were eyes on his back, but not those of anyone in this room. Unpleasant. </p><p> </p><p>“My—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap.</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Not of defeat, but of waiting. Watching. <em> Very </em>good. </p><p> </p><p>Hums began again, more instinct than anything else. Just another way to keep things spinning along. </p><p> </p><p>“...I see you.” </p><p> </p><p>Snap. “Do you?” Snap. “And are you going to do anything about it?” Snap. “Not that you could, but it’s a nice thought.” The lights in here were dizzying. Multicolor or no color or both.</p><p> </p><p>“You were— Hold on, you just—”</p><p> </p><p>Snap. “You were doing well for a moment, too. Still no idea who or what or where or when, though. Bit pathetic.” The music continued even as he spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m doing my <em> best—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do <em> better.” </em> Snap. “Or you die. Come on, then. Are you <em> anyone?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I— I’m—” </p><p> </p><p>Snap. “Stop hesitating.” Snap. <em> “Who are you?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>At once, clarity.</p><p> </p><p>“I am the <em> Archivist, </em> and this is <em> my </em>Archive.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny staggered at the abrupt silvershock of it all. It felt like every bit of him was stripped away to leave him as raw and exposed as a nerve. Despite that, his grin was true.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Jon.” He braced a hand on the shelf nearest to him. No longer reflected or wrong or anything it shouldn’t be.</p><p> </p><p>The last declaration had sent Jon flying from his chair to his feet. He blinked, wide-eyed, as reality gathered itself at last. “Oh— g-d, are you alright?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine. Just feel like you kicked me in the teeth is all.” He could feel a headache building, which came as no surprise. “But I was asking for it pretty directly, so. It happens.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Very </em>impressive.” </p><p> </p><p>Elias stood with hands clasped behind his back in the door of the archives. Pride edged his voice. “I thought I might have to step in and ask that you <em> not </em>make my Institute a beacon for the Stranger, but it seems Jon did my work for me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, well,” Jon muttered. “Delighted to be of service.”</p><p> </p><p>“Quite.” Danny couldn’t pin the look in Elias’s eyes beyond how similar it was to how Nikola used to look at him. The comparison alone was bad enough. “Finding that clarity will be much more difficult during the Unknowing itself, but you’ve come far.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny wondered if he had enough time before then to get into Elias’s office and make all his furniture a degree too big. He wasn’t a <em> short </em> man, no, but he wasn’t particularly <em> tall </em>either. If Danny could make so his feet didn’t quite touch the ground in that ostentatious leather desk chair he had, that’d be perfect.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll leave it to you then, Jon,” Elias said. “But Danny, I <em> do </em>ask that you keep your own efforts to help in check before you drive any of my staff to madness.”</p><p> </p><p>Leaned against the shelf, Danny gave him no more than a casual salute. Were this any other day, any other place, any other context, he might say something placating. Best to keep on the good side of the one in charge. </p><p> </p><p>He was a dead man walking. What did it matter? </p><p> </p><p>Not something he enjoyed thinking about, of course. Old, tired fear bit at his spine.</p><p> </p><p>As the sound of Elias’s overly polished shoes faded down the hall, Danny turned to Jon and clapped his hands together. It did little for the fear — not that it ever had before, but he knew how to pretend as well as he did how to smile.</p><p> </p><p>“May as well go on. How do you feel about dancing?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>As far as a beginning of the end went, a phone call was a hell of an anticlimax.</p><p> </p><p><em> “I don’t know who George Icarus </em> <em> is,” </em> Basira said. Daisy held her phone out in the middle of their loose circle. <em> “But that’s one of the guys they dug up.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon shook his head. “I can’t say I do, either.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Danny, is that someone you ever heard about there?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Basira couldn’t see the look he gave the phone, which was a damn shame. “Are you asking if I happened to hear some <em> name </em>just casually tossed around?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...Right. Stupid question.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You said ‘one of,’” Jon pressed. “What other skin did they find?”</p><p> </p><p>Basira hesitated to answer long enough that Danny wondered if the call dropped. <em> “Gertrude.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon jolted as if she’d just shouted a curse. “No, that… That doesn’t make any sense. I thought she was cremated, not buried or— or interred—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “So did I, but if she </em> was, <em> they screwed it right up.” </em>Basira was tense, no doubt, but she kept it in check.</p><p> </p><p>“Looks like they got an Archivist’s skin after all.” Jon spoke more to himself than anyone else, but Tim replied anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“I was sort of under the impression they’d take… y’know, any idiot.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny sighed through his teeth. “One’s business, one’s pleasure.”</p><p> </p><p>A pause of consideration, then Tim nodded. “Yeah, that tracks.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “I don’t know how long we have,” </em> Basira continued. <em> “Any idea, Danny?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“If these skins came from people who’ve been dead for a bit, they’re going to need some maintenance.” He shifted his weight. “I told you before I tried to avoid that side of things, so I’m not positive, but I’d say we have… a week, maybe a bit longer.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We’ll plan for a week, then.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One week to the end of the world. Danny wondered how its inhabitants could possibly be so ignorant to something like this, then wondered how he could possibly expect them to know.</p><p> </p><p>One week to live. Danny wondered what Tim would tell their parents this time.</p><p> </p><p>Elias waited until the last possible moment before revealing that he, to no one’s surprise, had Gertrude’s recording of the previous Unknowing’s statement in his <em>safekeeping,</em> because he apparently delighted in being of as little use as possible. </p><p> </p><p><span>As they gathered in a loose clump in front of Elias’s desk</span> — including Basira, back from Great Yarmouth, and barring Melanie, who said that every moment near him put her that much closer to stabbing him in the eye with one of his letter openers — Gertrude’s calm, steady voice outlined the fall of Wolfgang von Kempelen and his Turk.</p><p> </p><p>Danny assumed it did, anyway. As soon as things twisted into the Court Theatre of Buda and the automata and unreality inside, he checked out. The last thing he caught before everything fell to blur was Martin reaching over from his place on Danny’s left with clear concern, and Tim from just behind knocking his hand away in a small motion and shaking his head, just once.</p><p> </p><p>There was conversation. Not any that needed him. It wasn’t until a broad, firm hand settled against his upper back that Danny came back to himself, just in time to hear Elias remind them that, should the world not end, they needed to bring their receipts back to the Institute to claim expenses. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, and Danny?” </p><p> </p><p>The group of them paused on their shuffling way out as Danny turned to look back.</p><p> </p><p>“Do try and keep your wits about you,” Elias said with a small, pleasant smile. “Such… <em> drifting </em>during a ritual may pose a danger.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” Danny mirrored his expression. “I know you don’t have any actual experience, but there’s a bit of a difference between being somewhere where you can <em> act </em> and being talked at about something you <em> already </em>know and can’t do anything about.”</p><p> </p><p>No falter. “I suppose you’re right. I merely thought a warning was warranted, but you certainly know how unfortunate it is when you forget your lines mid-performance. If you believe you’ll be able to keep your head, by all means.” Elias set aside the recorder and returned to his computer in clear dismissal. “That will be all, then. Best of luck.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t bother to key into the conversation as they returned to the archives. Just logistics. Driving, the bed and breakfast they would stay at the night before, all that. He didn’t care. None of it mattered, but for the others talking about the mundane part of their plan must be a comforting way to pretend like they were prepared for the reason it was necessary at all.</p><p> </p><p>As they made their way downstairs, Daisy split off to go on one last hunt for Elias, and Martin left for the break room to make himself some tea (and, while he was there, did Danny want a hot chocolate?)</p><p> </p><p>Melanie waited by the yellow door. “Oh. Done already?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Jon answered with a stiff nod and a wary look at Helen. Her wave made the air buzz. His hand twitched at his side as if he intended to wave back, but he stopped himself and went through the real door next to her cheery falsehood. Tim did wave, but followed Jon rather than remain to chat. </p><p> </p><p>“Melanie was just telling me about how you plan to know the Unknown,” Helen said. </p><p> </p><p>Basira shot Melanie a raised eyebrow, and got a shrug in return.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought she could help, maybe.” </p><p> </p><p>“The troupe would have gotten Martin and I along with Tim without her,” Danny reminded Basira when she hesitated.</p><p> </p><p>A smile unfurled over Helen’s face. “I’m quite a <em> coup de grâce, </em>aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know that term means the last blow to kill something, right?” Basira folded her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Does it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Just an exit would be helpful,” Danny said before Helen could get too far toying with someone so linear. </p><p> </p><p>Helen’s eyes spun with color and intrigue. “Keep a door out, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” </p><p> </p><p>Today, her nails were checkered, or striped, or both, or neither. She tapped one against the side of her glasses with a click. “I’ll think on it. You may have more fun without my interruption.” </p><p> </p><p>Danny laughed and jerked a thumb to the side, angling his chest to half-hide the motion. Not in full, no. All a part of the joke. “You think I’d have more fun with <em> them?” </em></p><p> </p><p>After a look over the other two, mere flesh and bone and truths, Helen shot him a curling smirk. “Point.” She waved once more as her door creaked open. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught the other two wincing at the fractured fractal walls. “Until the world ends, then.”</p><p> </p><p>The door ceased to exist. It was only then that Danny realized he would almost certainly never see Helen again. </p><p> </p><p>He wished, just for a moment, that she would truly be his <em> coup de grâce. </em>Death would be kinder at the hands of a friend than an enemy.</p><p> </p><p>But then, he had no shortage of friends among the troupe, didn’t he? Enemy lines fell along individual perspectives, no more true than any other agreement — true until the ones who made it chose otherwise. True until another person could cast their own judgement. True until it wasn’t, or never true at all.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if an enemy could never do kindness, no matter how deep their hatred; or that a friend could never do harm, no matter how deep their care. As Tim continued to dodge and ignore the most important conversation he and Danny might ever have, he proved the latter with flying colors. </p><p> </p><p>Martin tried. Basira tried. Jon tried. Even Melanie, for all her discomfort and frequent bickering with Tim, tried. He avoided each confrontation with such little subtlety that Danny was almost surprised he hadn't begun taking out his hearing aids as soon as someone so much as alluded to it all. He never argued. There was never shouts or anger. He was, of all things, cold.  </p><p> </p><p>They were leaving for Great Yarmouth in a matter of hours. How long did Danny have left? Two days? Less?</p><p> </p><p>He and Jon managed to fit in one last practice for Jon’s sight, this time in extending it to clear others’ vision. Daisy had picked it up quickly, though she did better when she had a target to focus on. Tim kept an eerie sort of calm the majority of the time, and their final session was no different. As the colorblur and music faded once more, Jon nodded to Danny. He looked worn out — no surprise, considering how hard Danny had pushed him each time — but with a faint, clear pride. </p><p> </p><p>Jon made his way to the door after gathering his things. Tim followed behind, only stopping when Danny called his name.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to talk.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon turned, saw Danny’s face, and promptly hurried through the door to leave the others alone. Tim looked unbothered. </p><p> </p><p>“Can we do that in the car? We also need to pack.” </p><p> </p><p>With a slow breath in an attempt to keep frustration out of his voice, Danny answered, “We’re spending one night at a bed and breakfast. Packing will take two minutes. We need to talk about <em> after—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Not really. Do you want to stop anywhere for some food before—”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you <em> stop </em> redirecting for <em> once?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tension gathered the barest degree around Tim’s eyes. Danny didn’t want to see it as a victory, but it was <em> something. </em>Some kind of acknowledgement.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim, I— This’ll probably kill me, and I’m fucking <em> scared, </em> okay, and if you think pretending like it won’t happen <em> helps </em>in some fucked up way, then—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not pretending.” Even with that tension still there, even with the flicker in his eyes when Danny brought up his fear, still Tim was unmoved.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim!” he snapped. Better than shouting, no matter how much he wanted to. “I understand that you don’t want to think about it, but it’s <em> possible.</em> We have no idea how much my life is still tied to the troupe, but Jon thinks it’s solid. We blow it up, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to die.” </p><p> </p><p>Frustration built in the back of Danny’s throat until he could’ve screamed with it. He wanted to take Tim by the shoulders, shake him, and say, <em> You survived losing me once, you can do it again. </em></p><p> </p><p>But that would be a lie. The Tim that Danny grew up with was not the one that left Covent Garden Theater. The Tim that Danny grew up with did not survive losing him. He didn’t think the one here — this obstinate, bullheaded, idiotic man who’d saved Danny’s life in more ways than either of them could ever know — would survive grief’s encore. </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t want to die. The circus had never once cared what he wanted, and he didn’t expect it to begin now.</p><p> </p><p>“Look. When I was there, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I don’t even <em>know</em> how many injuries I got that should’ve permanently disabled me if they didn’t get infected and kill me first.” The words hurt to say, if only for how each pulled a minute flinch from Tim. “Four years. I should’ve been dead within the week. Something about being in the troupe kept me alive. With it gone—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care. Whatever happens, you’re going to walk away from the Unknowing.” </p><p> </p><p>There was none of argument’s fire. There were none of obstinance’s walls. This, to Tim, was fact.</p><p> </p><p>Danny was Tim’s brother. Danny was thirty-one years old. Danny was going to survive the day.</p><p> </p><p>No one could make denial look good, and Tim was no exception. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t get it,” Danny breathed as he shook his head with disbelief. “You know damn well you can’t do anything about whatever ties me to them. No one can. It’s there. It’s not going away. I made a deal right from the start, and there’s no going back on that.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim broke eye contact as he turned away, muttering something under his breath. Though Danny caught nothing more than a fragment, <em> “—not the only one who can make—” </em>was troubling enough alone.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Danny’s voice grew clipped and sharp. “What did you say?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t say—”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim, stop bullshitting me right now, I swear to—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shove it.” Daisy’s voice from the doorway brought their argument to a screeching halt. “We need to get moving.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded once and made for the door with a single wave over his shoulder. He didn’t look back.</p><p> </p><p>No, Danny didn’t know who George Icarus was, but the plummeting feeling in his stomach felt straight from the myth. </p><p> </p><p>Nikola may have been his Daedelus, but it was Tim who was watching him fall.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: general unreality, discussion of death </p><p>in the wings: an analysis of roles</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. JUDGEMENT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On roles, lives, and taking the final blow.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>time for a special chapter! warnings below, but like last chapter there aren't many</p><p>not art this week, but [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369259492360192/silviaelric-tma-fanfics-head-in-the-lions">this LOVELY moodboard from @silviaelric!</a>]</p><p>suggested listening: dear wormwood by the oh hellos<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">playlist so far</a>]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[CLICK]</p><p> </p><p>Alright, um. I know there’s some kind of format that all these start off with, but I don’t remember what it is. Sorry, Jon.</p><p> </p><p>Should I start thinking of myself as the ringmaster in my head again, just so I’m in the right headspace for this? Since I’m supposed to play along with the show for a bit and everything. Might make it a bit easier to not get overwhelmed by the blur of it all, too. </p><p> </p><p>I know the others think me being in that place means I might just go along with the troupe ‘til the end comes, but… G-d, it’s not like I can argue when I’m worried about the same damn thing, right? But Jon’s got his Sight, Basira’s sensible, and Tim is— well, Tim. They can help. Hell, even Daisy would probably be able to smack some sense into me if needed. I can’t let myself get stuck on that, or I won’t be any help at all.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, even when I was fully in that headspace, I was still aware enough to help Jon where I could. I mean, my definition of help has changed since then, but still. </p><p> </p><p>But it was only ever Jon, wasn’t it? I wasn’t finding all these sneaky ways to keep people alive at shows. I wasn’t smuggling out all the people kept around as backup costumes. Hard to when the only thing I could focus on was making sure I didn’t end up back in their number. </p><p> </p><p>I wasn’t ever some hero to those people. Just a wind-up soldier, and Nikola had the key. Still feels like she does, sometimes. It’s not the kind of thing I can tell the rest — then I’ll just get the, <em>Oh, Danny, there’s no key, you’re not a wind-up doll, you’re a person, </em>all that crap. I know. I know I’m a living person because I spent four years with that as all I could think about. It’s not about life, or personhood, or any of that. It’s about control. Always has been.</p><p> </p><p>I feel like I’m meant to be… I don’t know, angry or something, but it’s like being angry at a bee that stings you. It hurts, yeah, but it doesn’t know how to do anything else once you’re in its space. It does what it’s designed to do, and sometimes that means it hurts you.</p><p> </p><p><em> (sigh) </em>Sometimes I, I think about the audience. The people in the audience. It’s not like everyone who came to a show died, even if… even if some did. And the ones who left, who survived, they might not remember most of it, but they all remember something. The lights. The music. Some particular trick. A death. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes I wonder how many people out there only remember me. </p><p> </p><p>G-d, what would I even do if someone recognized me in the street? I’ve got no idea how many shows I did while I was in there, and with how we traveled, I don’t even know how many places I’ve been. How many people have I performed in front of? Hundreds? Thousands? I wasn’t ringmaster from the start or anything, so it’s not a full four years’ worth, but that’s still a <em> lot </em>of people.</p><p> </p><p>If one of those people saw me, would they see me as a bee, just doing what I was designed to do? Or would I be just as human as them — full awareness, full choices, full responsibility.</p><p> </p><p>I’m not really sure which one is worse.</p><p> </p><p>Guess it doesn’t matter at this point. Let’s see if I make it through saving the world before agonizing over whether I’m famous enough to get noticed in the street.<em> (humorless laugh) </em></p><p> </p><p>I wonder… I wonder if I’ll see anyone I remember while I’m there, in the middle of it all. I mean, it’s not really <em> if, </em>is it? It’s who. Or what, I guess. Either. Both. </p><p> </p><p>Could be any one of them. I can hope and pray all I want that she won’t be one, but I’m on pretty limited time for that, huh? </p><p> </p><p>It’s just… weird to think about, is all. I mean, Nikola wasn’t <em> too </em> hard to see for what she is, all things considered, but half of me still wants to call the other people there my friends. They <em> were </em>my friends. </p><p> </p><p>Most of them never even hurt me — hell, some of them might’ve been <em> like </em>me, just ex-humans trying to keep alive. How the hell can I condemn them for the same shit I did, like I’m somehow exempt just because I was lucky enough that someone who half-recognized me showed up, and kept his skin long enough to say something?</p><p> </p><p>[A LONG PAUSE.]</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t matter. People are dying either way, on both sides. It’s pretty damn inevitable. Tim can dig his heels in as much as he wants, but I know he knows that. Jon said it himself — he thinks like that these days. Fatalist. He and I just… We have different bets on which Stoker this is going to take down with it. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t know what I can do to make sure he doesn’t think with only his guilt. I don’t think I can do anything. </p><p> </p><p>Danny Stoker, completely helpless to the end. What a way to leave the world, right?</p><p> </p><p>[SILENCE, BROKEN ONLY BY A SHAKY BREATH.]</p><p> </p><p>I keep thinking that if I say it enough, or make jokes about it, I’ll eventually just… be numb, or something. Conditioning doesn’t break that easy, I guess. Danny, ringmaster, whatever — I don’t want to die. That’s it. </p><p> </p><p>…I don’t know if Tim feels different. On whether he— </p><p> </p><p>Jesus, who am I kidding? I do know. I know, and it scares the shit out of me. Always has. </p><p> </p><p>I keep telling myself to talk to him about that, but it’s hard when I don’t really understand feeling that way. For me, it’s like… Like no matter how awful I feel about the things I’ve done, or how much I wish I could stop feeling like this on low days, I’m still in survival mode. I’m never going to stop being in survival mode, I don’t think. It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t deserve. It doesn’t matter if I have a right to this life. I know I would do anything to stay alive. Doesn’t matter what.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a very pleasant thing to know about yourself.</p><p> </p><p>Wow. I know you said to keep these short, Jon, and I’m pretty sure, <em>don’t be horribly depressing, </em> was an unspoken rule, but it looks like I broke both of those. Sorry ‘bout that. I haven’t been very good at rules, these days. Nikola would be <em> so </em>disappointed. Shame.</p><p> </p><p>Well, best go out with a bang, right? ...Oh, Jesus, I’ve been spending too much time with Tim. Whatever. Give a man his gallows humor, even if it’s puns. </p><p> </p><p>I can make jokes or bloviate all day, but in the end, it’s simple: I know who they are, and I know who I am. </p><p> </p><p>It’ll hurt, doing this… <em> (deep breath) </em>But so does anything worth doing.</p><p> </p><p>[CLICK]</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: (all only discussion) death, suicidal ideation, Danny's Whole Situation</p><p>the next chapter is going to be uhhhhhhhhh Chunky as i'm sure you've all imagined (ideally not longer than ch10 but fuck knows), so i'm unsure when it'll be out, but i'm VERY excited to get cracking so hopefully it won't be too long a wait! </p><p>in the wings: the green room, the house, the stage</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. JUSTICE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On words, games, and setting the stage.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so originally i was going to have this be one big ole chapter like ch10, but considering we're sitting at 12k with this it was better to split it -- unlike ch10, there WAS a satisfying cutoff! this one came fast after a quick breather on my end, so the next one should be out before long</p><p>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369281596358656">more art -- this LOVELY danny portrait</a>]</p><p>content warnings in the end note!</p><p>suggested listening: war by former vandals<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">playlist so far</a>]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somehow, the hugs from Martin and Melanie were the worst part.</p><p> </p><p>Martin had the decency to give the same to Tim and Jon. Danny’s was longer, but not unique.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie hugged only him — brief, every edge of her as sharp as it looked. When she pulled away, there was no grief. Over anything else, she looked pissed. Danny choked down a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“You'll call when you’re ready for us to start tomorrow, right?” It wasn’t a necessary question, not with how often they’d all gone over the plan, but Martin was nothing if not a worrier.</p><p> </p><p>Basira nodded once. “We’ll let you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you’ll text when you get to Great Yarmouth?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not our first road trip,” Tim told Martin with a gentle knock against his shoulder. “I promise I won’t crash the car on the way.”</p><p> </p><p>The look Martin gave him was heavy with sorrow and things unsaid. Danny didn’t envy him the task of crafting a new script from the scraps of conversion Tim had refused to humor; all for the one that would come with their inevitable missing piece.</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring them, Melanie folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at Danny. If he didn’t know her, he’d think she was gearing to punch him.</p><p> </p><p>“Blow ‘em all to hell.”</p><p> </p><p>His returning smile was a small, lopsided facsimile. “That’s the plan.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie watched him a moment longer, then nodded, turned on her heel, and marched off.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go,” Daisy called from the lobby door. “I’m not sitting in London traffic the whole bloody night.” Without waiting for a reply, she headed out towards the car park, Basira close behind.</p><p> </p><p>Tim glanced over to Danny. “You got everything?” When Danny affirmed, he turned to Jon with the same question written all over his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I believe so. Clothes, a statement to ensure I’m, ah… full up, as it were.” Jon cleared his throat. “Toiletries, et cetera.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. We should get going then.” Tim nodded to Martin once more, then left with as much ease as if they were headed home for the night, ready to be back bright and early in the morning.</p><p> </p><p>They were leaving to ensure there would be any mornings after the next. A minor errand.</p><p> </p><p>Jon met eyes with Martin with a nod of his own and a short, steadying breath, then offered a quiet, “Good luck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Martin replied, just as quiet. “You too.”</p><p> </p><p>And, as if that could contain everything that might need to be said, Jon followed Tim’s path to the door with Danny close behind, up until Martin called his name.</p><p> </p><p>Martin stood alone in the lobby with his hands knotted together and shoulders rounded down. “I— Um. G-d, I…” He was almost as tall as Danny, but even with that height and his stocky build, he could make himself look impressively small. “I don’t really know what to say.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to say anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just…” There was a pause as Martin steeled himself, then continued, “Tim didn’t talk about you much, before all this. But I’m— I’m really glad I got to meet you.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t know what face he was making. It wasn’t pleasant, he knew that much. No gentle melancholy. No harsh smile, either.</p><p> </p><p>When he said nothing, Martin shifted his weight with another twist of his hands. “I— I’m sorry, I thought— I don’t know. I thought you should know, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>For a breath, Danny kept still and silent.</p><p> </p><p>“I need to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Right.” Martin blinked a few times. “Good luck.”</p><p> </p><p>Waste of a well-wish, and not one Danny returned. His wave was nothing more than a short jerk of his hand before he too left the Institute.</p><p> </p><p>Taking two cars wasn’t <em> necessary, </em>not for a mere five passengers, but the circumstances swelled to fill far too much room for close quarters. Tim stood by his own car as Jon fussed around with his things at the passenger seat. Daisy and Basira waited at the other.</p><p> </p><p>Once he saw Danny descending the steps, Tim asked, “Ready to go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep.” Impulse carried him to join Basira. Jon watched through the open front doors of the car, wide eyes flicking between Tim and Danny.</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s hand curled tighter on the strap of his bag. “I was gonna try to nap on the way there, and you’re both chatterboxes.”</p><p> </p><p>The amused smile and shrug from Tim almost made Danny think he believed the half-truth. “Like you’re not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not when I’m <em> asleep.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’d be surprised.”</p><p> </p><p>The normalcy to it all made Danny want to scream. A clench of his jaw kept it at bay as he got in the car. He was out of words. Even with one last glance through the window, he couldn’t read what Tim was thinking.</p><p> </p><p>That, by all rights, made no g-ddamn sense. Even if he didn’t know <em> why, </em> Danny could always get a pretty good grasp on <em> what </em>Tim felt — in part because Tim was borderline and wore it all over his face, the rest because of almost thirty years around each other. Not enough for this.</p><p> </p><p>A short chorus of shutting doors, and they were off.</p><p> </p><p>Napping was a lost cause, of course, but still Danny kicked his legs up across the back seats, then leaned against the door with his backpack as a makeshift pillow and eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p>If this were some movie like they’d joked about with Abby (G-d, <em>Abby, </em>what was Tim going to tell her and Joy?), Danny knew he would be able to fight down every feeling besides quiet resolution. Determination would outweigh this fear. He might make one solemn comment about it, something poetically tragic, or else tragically poetic; then move on as if it never happened.</p><p> </p><p>This was no movie. This was a show. The thought in no way helped.</p><p> </p><p>Just as he had the last time they made this trip intending to infiltrate, he wondered who he might see there. It somehow mattered more and far, far less now. It didn’t matter who, because it was the last time any of them would see him. It mattered more than words could say, because it was the last time he would see any of them. An exercise in contradiction. Nothing new there, not with the troupe.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>Were he asked, he could list dozens upon dozens of roles and still not have the complete list. Maybe he would see no one he recognized — bar Nikola, at any rate. There was no getting around her.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>Where was he meant to go when Daisy detonated the explosives? The others would want him nearby on the off chance it didn’t kill him, but he couldn’t imagine watching him keel over where he stood would be pleasant. Double if he somehow went out the same way the rest of the circus did, no proximity to the blast required.</p><p> </p><p>Gross.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny, we’re here.”</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he’d just get pulled apart at the seamscars with a press of the button. Plenty gorey, unquestionably dramatic. Nikola would love it.</p><p> </p><p>A touch to the knee nearly made him jump out of his skin. He blinked back to reality to see Basira turned in her seat to face him as Daisy kept watch over one shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>The bed and breakfast was of average size, nothing fancy. Tim and Jon waited for them outside their own car, both packs slung over Tim’s shoulder. Jon looked a little put out by that, but from the way he winced with each step, the drive must have left him stiff as anything.</p><p> </p><p>As Daisy pulled Basira’s bag from the trunk and tossed it her way, Danny studied the other two. Strange tension sat between them — not angry, not upset, but tense all the same. A conversation left half-finished, maybe; something that a three hour drive wasn’t enough to contain.</p><p> </p><p>Basira returned from checking in to let them know that Rosie had called ahead and reserved two rooms. They needed no discussion about who would sleep where, so Basira simply handed Jon the other key and bid them goodnight.</p><p> </p><p>A small problem: one bed. Feasible for two, laughable for three.</p><p> </p><p>“I imagine if we asked the front desk, they could scrounge up a cot,” Jon said as he reclaimed his pack. “I wouldn’t mind taking that and leaving you both the bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim looked up from where he was digging through his own. “Uh, we’re not gonna make the disabled guy sleep on a shitty cot, Jon. I can—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll take it.” It wasn’t that Danny <em> wanted </em>to, but frankly, he didn’t know Jon near enough to be thrilled at the prospect of sharing a bed.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, well. Thank you.” Jon looked back to Tim. “As far as what you said with the recordings, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I know. I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny wasn’t privy to the first half of whatever conversation they had on the way here, and he had no desire to spectate the second. He may have wondered plenty about whatever was up with their dynamic before, but tonight needed no additional complications.</p><p> </p><p>“Gonna step out for a smoke. I’ll get the cot on the way back in.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s brows knit. “Is— Is that safe? We don’t really know—”</p><p> </p><p>“I promise to not add another entry to the kidnapping log.” No reason to wait for their reply after snagging the half-empty pack from his bag; it wasn’t like he needed permission. “Back in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know how long he sat outside, watching smoke drift from his place on a bench and doing his best to not think. The stars were plenty pretty, he supposed. He searched for no constellations. Chainsmoking alone on his last night on Earth was cliché enough.</p><p> </p><p>Martin was glad they got to meet before all this. Super. Danny wished he could force himself to take some kind of comfort in that, as if memory was an acceptable substitute for existence. The action hero version of him would see it as enough, no doubt. Scarlett Johansson would get an Oscar and deliver a perfectly poignant speech that the judges would weep over and that the internet would tear to shreds. Hell of a legacy.</p><p> </p><p>A cough shook Danny from his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you mind if I join you?” Jon sounded as composed as one could reasonably expect, but his voice did nothing to hide how one hand flapped at his side like a hummingbird’s wing, quick and minute.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>A click, a small flash at the corner of Danny’s eye, and Jon settled on the other side of the paint-chipped bench with his own cigarette in hand.</p><p> </p><p>For a long moment, Jon mimicked Danny’s silence. No telling how many things Jon had worth dwelling on, as if night air held more answers than the sort in their rented room. Maybe it did. Maybe there weren’t <em> more, </em> only <em> different, </em>and Jon hoped he might like these better than whatever conclusions dim lamplight could provide.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe, maybe Jon was nothing more than a scared man with a nicotine addiction, sitting on a shitty bench outside a mediocre bed and breakfast for lack of anything better to do.</p><p> </p><p>Jon broke their purposeless vigil with a question. “Are you… feeling alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t need to ask if Tim sent him. For all Tim had refused to open the floor, he wouldn’t have the audacity to send another person for that very thing in his stead.</p><p> </p><p>The question was genuine and well-meant, but acid dragged up Danny’s throat all the same. “What are you looking for, Jon?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I wanted to give you the option to—”</p><p> </p><p>“To make a statement?”</p><p> </p><p>He watched Jon shift in his periphery. “Not in so many words, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“But that’s what you want.” Exhaustion softened Danny’s tone, but he didn’t care enough to push it back.</p><p> </p><p>Jon shook his head. “I wanted you to have the option to <em> talk. </em>If you’d prefer not to, I understand, but I thought I should offer.”</p><p> </p><p>The laugh Danny let out at that was more of a dull, huffed outbreath. “I talk plenty, Jon. I’ll talk plenty more tomorrow. I’d like a break, if you don’t mind.” Each word tasted bitter.</p><p> </p><p>“...Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>Tobacco and moonlight were no balm. The company of a man who he met at his lowest was no comfort. For a split, laughable second, Danny was almost tempted to call his mother. Try for some kind of goodbye, maybe. The knowledge that it would only make him feel worse stayed his hand.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he could try calling his father, if Danny thought he would pick up.</p><p> </p><p>If he did, that was no better. What would Danny even <em> say? </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Hey, Dad! I know you thought I died four years ago, but surprise! It was hell, but I lived, isn’t that great? Anyway, I’m going to </em> actually <em> die within the next twenty-four hours. Tell Mum I love her, if you can get that many words out without a screaming match. Also, if either of you blame Tim, I </em> will <em> haunt you, so don’t be a dick. See you in the ether! </em></p><p> </p><p>When Jon’s cigarette burned down to the filter, he reached out, hesitated, then patted Danny once on the shoulder. Danny couldn’t scrounge up the energy to react. He should, he knew. Just a nod, or a glance, or a genuine-looking smile. Something that made Jon feel like he’d <em> helped. </em>Give him some peace of mind.</p><p> </p><p>Tough.</p><p> </p><p>The night air held as few answers for Danny as it did for Jon. Once his last cigarette was no more than a stub, he pushed himself up to stand. Whatever he was looking for when he came out here, he didn’t find it.</p><p> </p><p>He spared a moment to hope the cot wasn’t itchy. If nothing else, he’d earned that much.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Danny woke to a form hovering over him, adrenaline hit so fast it made him dizzy. In a single motion, he flew to sit upright and shoved himself back until his shoulder hit the wall. Tense. Waiting.</p><p> </p><p>Jon winced. “I— I’m sorry, I only wanted to wake you.” His fingers flexed on the grip of his cane as he swallowed. “If you’d like breakfast, we need to leave soon.”</p><p> </p><p>As his brain attempted to recategorize Jon from <em> threat </em> to <em> nervous librarian, </em>Danny nodded. No words. He could only hope that’d fade before today’s hell broke loose and needed a tour guide.</p><p> </p><p>When Tim left the bathroom, Danny took it. Dressing was a matter of moments, but as soon as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he stilled.</p><p> </p><p>White dress shirt. Stain free, unlike the one he wore when leaving. No tie. No idea where the hell the original went — Tim binned it, probably — and no time or reason to replace it before now. Black trousers, the same he had there. Without his shoes or jacket, he looked just the same as any man off to a formal event, though most wouldn’t consider blowing up a dilapidated wax museum under that umbrella.</p><p> </p><p>A quiet knock shook him out of his thoughts. He opened the door to see Tim, who looked him over with deliberate neutrality.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Still voiceless, Danny skirted past, then sat on the cot to put on his shoes. His fingers worked carefully at the knots as he watched, passive. A scatter of dark spots marred the gold tip on one. His thumb rubbed it away as if it were no more than a scuff and moved on.</p><p> </p><p>The jacket came last, carried to the museum and back as many times as Danny himself. He’d known this whole time he would need it again, didn’t he? It was why he hadn’t let Tim get rid of it when he first left the troupe. It was why he insisted on keeping it with him every time they came back to Great Yarmouth. It was why, even now, some small corner of him took comfort in the brush of soft, rich fabric against his scar-striped fingers.</p><p> </p><p>Putting it on was easier than breathing, up until one wrong shift sent a short bolt of pain zipping down one of the scars across his back. Danny grimaced as he paused and rolled his shoulder in an attempt to loosen its fresh tension. Again, Jon watched with obvious concern. He knew better than to try and assist.</p><p> </p><p>“Ready to go?” Tim asked once Danny’s brief struggle was over.</p><p> </p><p>Jon finished putting his hair in a low ponytail. “I believe so, yes. I can carry my own bag this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Just as Jon hadn’t insisted on giving Danny unneeded help, Tim didn’t argue. Danny nodded his own affirmation.</p><p> </p><p>Ready to go. Right.</p><p> </p><p>It was only when Jon and Tim were halfway out the door that Danny paused at his place trailing behind. With no voice in him, he managed to get Tim’s attention by catching his arm with one hand.</p><p> </p><p>Both of the others turned back, though when Jon saw Danny’s face, he said, “I’ll meet you both at the car, then,” and hurried off.</p><p> </p><p>Danny studied Tim with increasing desperation. Where was his fear? Tim’s anger could move mountains if he put his mind to it, and he hated Nikola and her circus more than anything else in the world. Where was that?</p><p> </p><p>“What’re you thinking?” Tim was quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Danny said nothing, neither speech nor sign. Even if words would come, he had no idea what collection of them could possibly contain the spinning brightlight blinders filling his head. English, Malay, Chinese, BSL, it didn’t matter. Language wasn’t made for this.</p><p> </p><p>This, Tim understood. He raised the arm not in Danny’s grip, and Danny needed no further invitation.</p><p> </p><p>Tim hugged him the same as he had the very first time they saw each other again — one arm wrapped around his middle with that hand solid between Danny’s shoulder blades, the other hand against the back of Danny’s head.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike then, Danny knew how to respond. His own arms went just as tight, head bowed to press into Tim’s shoulder. He clung to his brother like a kid. Like staying here long enough meant all this would pass him by and he could move on to something else, something nonessential and pointless with no weight of the world.</p><p> </p><p>Oh. He’d quit smoking in uni because he wanted to be a dancer. Wasn’t that a laugh?</p><p> </p><p>For as much as Tim acted as if all was well, like there was nothing special to trouble them here, he was in no more hurry to let go than Danny. Unlike that very first hug, there were no tremors, but again he held on as if letting go meant Danny would vanish all over again.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t mean that, of course. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>Danny pulled away first. Part of him felt like he should want to cry, if not be crying already, but for some reason it seemed anachronistic. This was not the proper scene nor stage.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey. Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>It took some effort for Danny to pull himself from staring into the middle distance over Tim’s shoulder to meet his eyes. The hand that’d held his head before now settled on the junction between Danny’s own shoulder and neck.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s going to be fine, alright?” Tim said it like it was fact, just another guaranteed truth of the universe. The sun moved from east to west and it was going to be fine. The scientific name of the carrion crow was <em> corvus corone </em>and it was going to be fine. Tim was allergic to pineapple and it was going to be fine.</p><p> </p><p>When Danny could only look back at him, weary and resigned, Tim delivered the killing blow.</p><p> </p><p>“I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Another universal truth, as if truth meant anything. Danny knew how little substance could lie behind pretty words better than anyone.</p><p> </p><p>When it became clear Danny wouldn’t respond, or couldn’t, or both, Tim released him. Their only company was silence.</p><p> </p><p>In the time it took them to join the others, Basira had scrounged up some protein bars, and passed them around as they all loaded into one car. No reason to take both for a short trip across town, and if Gertrude’s notes about the key supports were off and meant nearby buildings took some damage, it was one less piece of potential collateral.</p><p> </p><p>As a resort town measuring not even four square miles, the trip shouldn’t have taken long, but early August was still tourist season. The House of Wax sat just off a pedestrian-only road lined with small shops, and though the time of morning meant passersby weren’t as densely packed as they would be later, enough were out to be an obstacle. All Danny could do to keep himself from losing it was cycle through their plan over and over.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy would plant the explosives with Tim to watch her back, or else give her a hand as needed. Jon would get to work carving his sigils as Basira kept guard. Danny would collect the people kept backstage. When Daisy and Tim returned, Daisy would stick with Jon while the other three moved towards the stage and waited for the show to begin.</p><p> </p><p>As much as he tried, repetition was nowhere near enough to shake the certainty taking root in Danny’s bones that something was very, very wrong.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Jon looked over his shoulder at Danny, wide-eyed and anxious. He felt it, too.</p><p> </p><p>Or rather, he <em> didn’t. </em>There was nothing to feel, and dread flooded Danny’s veins like ice water.</p><p> </p><p>Basira had barely parked before Danny shoved his way past the others and flew from the car, with Jon following as best he could behind. His pace picked up even when the others shouted, calling for him to stop, or wait, or <em> explain. </em>Past the rushing in his ears, he heard Jon snap that they needed to hurry.</p><p> </p><p>That same back door they’d used before waited for them between bins and cigarette butts. In a matter of moments, Danny tore it open and burst inside.</p><p> </p><p>The House of Wax was empty.</p><p> </p><p>No troupe. No props. No costumes. Anything that once resembled seating or stages was gone as if it’d never existed. It was nothing more than a hollow, ordinary building, without so much as a cobweb left behind.</p><p> </p><p>Emptiness couldn’t explain the thick smell of iron. Familiar enough to Danny, but when the others filed in behind, he heard some of them gag. He spun in place, searching and desperate.</p><p> </p><p>“No. No, no, no no <em> no—” </em> His first words of the day, involuntary and under his breath; a refusal to believe that things could have gone this wrong before they’d even begun.</p><p> </p><p>There. By the nearest wall, a fault line in the not-strange. Danny grit his teeth and wrenched it open like a ribcage.</p><p> </p><p>The troupe did not leave any costumes behind. They did the bodies that once wore them no such courtesy.</p><p> </p><p>A chorus of horror and chokes filled the air, but Danny stood frozen. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the rust-red message scrawled above the first casualties of the Unknowing.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>“Round four,” Jon breathed from Danny’s side. “The scavenger hunt.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny couldn’t think. His lungs refused to take in air. He’d been readying himself all morning, steeling himself for what was to come, and as she always did, Nikola opened the floor under him for the pure joy of watching him fall.</p><p> </p><p>Lightheaded, he watched as Basira checked each form for any sign of life — a lost cause before she even began, which she no doubt knew. As grotesque as they were, the scene was somehow clean. The only blood was that on the wall. The bodies themselves lay in a neat row, each with arms bent and fingers laced over their abdomens.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t explain why, but the tidiness disgusted him more than potential gore. There was love and care put into this little presentation.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy called them to order. “What do we know?”</p><p> </p><p>“That they could be anywhere in the fucking <em> world.” </em> Danny couldn’t keep himself from pacing in jagged rounds, fingers dragging through his hair in hopes that the sharp pain of tugging at it would keep him somewhere near coherent.</p><p> </p><p>“They could <em> get </em> to anywhere in the world,” Basira corrected as she finished her check. All dead, of course. They wouldn’t have been so lucky as to die <em> before </em>losing their costume, but the process didn’t care to keep them alive, either. “That doesn’t mean everywhere is equally likely.”</p><p> </p><p>“Could be anywhere, but this is her big moment,” Daisy added. “She’ll choose somewhere that means something.”</p><p> </p><p>It took a hell of an effort, but Danny forced his breath to slow even as he continued pacing. “It’s round four of the same game. It’ll be related somehow.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t realize Tim had briefly stepped away until he returned with phone in hand. “I let Martin and Melanie know things changed, and to hold off on their end. Far as the whole game goes, Nikola gave another clue in the same tape I said the statement number, but I don’t remember what in specific.”</p><p> </p><p>“Something about her predecessor, I think?” Jon’s free hand bounced so hard it traveled up his arm. “Based on the recording Elias played, I think we can assume that means the Mechanical Turk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, can you—”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t let Daisy finish. “See them? No, that’s not how it works. Not with the Stranger.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not even with all that practice?”</p><p> </p><p>“That was practice for seeing <em> through, </em>not finding. It’s like learning to see clearly underwater, then being dropped in a desert and told to track down an oasis with the same tools.”</p><p> </p><p>“The last clue, then,” Basira cut in. “Anyone remember it?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s brow furrowed hard. “Something about its—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not going to be the exact same place.” Danny at last stopped in his tracks as he faced them. “We’re playing the same game, but we cheated last time, and now we’re searching for something <em> different. </em>Different purpose, different prize; different hiding spot.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “She probably wants us to follow it. It was out of the country, she said. We track the wrong trail, and the Unknowing goes off without a hitch.”</p><p> </p><p>“But that just puts us back with <em> nothing,” </em>Jon snapped. Danny shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“She wants an audience. Getting us out of the country means we wouldn’t be able to stop her, but part of her <em> wants </em> us to find her, right when it’s too late. To taunt us. Gloat. There’s a clue here somewhere, there <em> has </em>to be, I just—” His voice cut out with a low, rough groan of frustration and half-buried panic.</p><p> </p><p>“There has to be a pattern.” Basira sounded so assured, so solid, and Danny wanted to scream until his throat was in tatters.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the <em> Stranger, </em>Basira, like I just said, and it—”</p><p> </p><p>“But she wants the <em> Eye </em>to find her.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon had no argument for that, but his face pinched. “Fine, but we can’t assume her logic is the same as ours.”</p><p> </p><p>The taste of copper coated Danny’s whole mouth as he stared without seeing at the bloody clue left for them. They were playing a game. She wanted an audience. She would be close enough for them to feasibly reach her before the show began, granted they could find her stage.</p><p> </p><p>“Her other clues were…”</p><p> </p><p>“Back to the beginning for Covent Garden, then the whole <em> harlequin’s wedding </em>line to get us to Sadler’s Wells.”</p><p> </p><p>Back to the beginning, yes. That was what they were doing now. Back to the wax museum; back to Nikola always, always, always getting what she wanted.</p><p> </p><p>“Then that whole laundry list for Madame Tussauds.”</p><p> </p><p>“And the last was whatever comment she made about the Turk. Something about its debut.”</p><p> </p><p>Her debut. Where would she go? She wanted an audience, and who was the front row reserved for?</p><p> </p><p>The bared muscles and tendons before him held no answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think she went to where the previous Unknowing attempt was?”</p><p> </p><p>“The Court Theatre of Buda, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s in <em> Hungary, </em>and Danny was pretty certain she wouldn’t go to the same place that last clue led to.”</p><p> </p><p>“She did seem prone to change her mind, what with how she tasked me with finding the skin the Turk used, then decided she would prefer mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Skin. Skin was taken, and what was left? The bodies held no answers, but they stood as unused materials. The troupe didn’t always discard them. Waxworks needed scaffolding.</p><p> </p><p>“Then <em> what? </em> If not that clue, <em> what?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Kind of a long shot, but she went on about nostalgia a lot while I was there, even on the recordings she didn’t send you guys. Does that get us anywhere?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the tie between each clue she used then. The place she took Danny from first, where Joseph Grimadli debuted, whatever she meant for the Turk.”</p><p> </p><p>Waxworks needed scaffolding and dancers needed costumes and nostalgia needed history. That was her running thread with the hunt, and it meant one outlier. One whose nostalgia came only with this new round.</p><p> </p><p>Breathless and head spinning, Danny whipped around to face the others.</p><p> </p><p>“Madame Tussauds!”</p><p> </p><p>Four confused stares. He could only pray his thoughts came in some sort of order as he rushed to explain.</p><p> </p><p>“With the whole game before, everything was nostalgia, but— Covent Garden was mine and Tim’s, Sadler’s Wells was Grimaldi’s, whatever the last clue was was the Stranger’s, or the Turk’s, or <em> whatever—” </em> He started pacing again. “But Madame Tussauds is only nostalgic <em> now, </em>she— she set it up that way, since we—”</p><p> </p><p>“Since we’ve been here so many times,” Basira finished. “And we knew what to expect.”</p><p> </p><p>The calm Tim had carried over the past few days cracked through with a growled, “She knew we’d have a plan.”</p><p> </p><p>“But— But that makes no sense!” Jon burst. “It’s twenty minutes from the Institute! That’d put her right next to the ones trying to <em> stop her—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“The ones trying to stop her aren’t twenty minutes away, Jon. They’re <em> three hours.” </em> Deciding for them all, Daisy turned to the door. “We need to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would she be so close to— to the Eye, and <em> Elias, </em>and—”</p><p> </p><p>“Who better in the front seat?” Danny’s voice was rough, still, but some of the furious colorspin in his head narrowed — not calm, only focused. “I should go ahead of you all.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira shook her head. “That’s plain stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, seconded. You’re not going by yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny glared at them both her and Tim. They didn’t have time for this. “It’s not like I can take anyone with me!”</p><p> </p><p>“You brought me with you last time,” Tim argued.</p><p> </p><p>“You were <em> concussed </em> last time.” Desperation and misdirected anger sharpened each word. “I’m not planning to charge into the place alone, but we have one shot at this. If we get there and we’re wrong, that’s it! We won’t have <em> time </em>for another round. I go there, and if I feel that presence, I tell you.”</p><p> </p><p>"We could send Melanie and Martin to—"</p><p> </p><p>Danny didn't let Jon finish. "Can't risk them getting pulled in, and they need to keep to their side of the plan. Me going makes the most sense."</p><p> </p><p>“We can’t wait for you to go there and back. We need to go, <em> now,” </em>Daisy reiterated.</p><p> </p><p>Tim dug in his pocket to get his phone, then held it Danny’s way. “You travel ahead. If you feel them, you let us know.”</p><p> </p><p>“If not, we pull over and you travel back our way, and we figure out our next step,” Basira added.</p><p> </p><p>Jon still looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “I think it’s our best—”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s <em> move,” </em>Daisy snapped from the door.</p><p> </p><p>As brusque as she was, there was no arguing with her point. They needed to go, now.</p><p> </p><p>Danny hadn’t realized how numb he’d grown to the cloying tang of blood until they were in fresh air. Jon spared one more glance over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“...What are we going to do about—?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call it in on the way to London.” Basira answered. “Daisy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it.”</p><p> </p><p>Apparently that counted as conversation enough for Daisy to head right to the driver’s seat. Basira looked back to Danny. “I’m your contact. Keep me updated. We’ll reconfigure what we can of the plan, so I might text you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” He turned to make his way down the road, but before he could take more than a step, Tim caught him by the arm.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re just checking they’re there, alright? Not going in.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked more concerned now that Danny would be out of sight than he had all morning; though considering he’d been clocking at a steady zero, the bar was low.</p><p> </p><p>Tim didn’t push. Whether it was because he saw no need to or because there was no time was impossible to say.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep in touch. Be safe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine. Can I go?”</p><p> </p><p>At last, Tim released him. “See you in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny nodded once, then began his walk. The road kept straight, but still it turned in and outside itself until everything was no longer what it was.</p><p> </p><p>No telling what specific road he was on, of course, but the towering buildings around him made no secret of the district. How the hell did he come out in Canary Wharf, of all places? Walking to Madame Tussauds directly from here would take hours — hours they didn’t have.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing for it but to try again. He walked until glass and metal became worn bricks. Golders Green, according to the Underground station nearest him. Definitely not Marylebone, nor anywhere else in the West End of London.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t sure how many times he skipped from district to borough and back again, each time growing no closer. It was only when he pinned Fulham as incorrect without needing to check a single sign that he realized the problem.</p><p> </p><p>He knew London too well, now. Both his own returning memories from before the troupe and the amount of time he’d spent around it after coming back meant he was no longer a stranger here. There was no traveling all roads as if they were the same when he knew their names.</p><p> </p><p>Only thing for it was to hail a cab. Ordinary transport.</p><p> </p><p>The driver looked as blasé as one might expect in his line of work, though Danny’s costume earned a raised brow.</p><p> </p><p>“You headed to a performance or somethin’?”</p><p> </p><p>“Kind of,” Danny answered with what was ideally a relaxed smile. He didn’t hold out much hope. “Madame Tussauds, please. Or, um, a block or so down the road.”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until Tim’s phone vibrated in his pocket that he remembered he had it at all.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Status update?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Turns out I know that part of London too well by now</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Meaning?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Closest I got was Fulham</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>I got a cab, should be there in 20/25min. Not sure about the roads though</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Got it. Text when you're there.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Mere moments gave him his answer. Danny wished he could blame the thickening traffic as they drew close on plain bad luck. As much of an oxymoron as it sounded, he wasn’t that lucky.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s been a lot of people comin’ in from out of town the past couple days,” the driver remarked when Danny asked about the source. “Must be some kinda convention, or somethin’ like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Right.” He sat back to watch out the window as the crowds he called together with his very breath drew in for their last show. “Something like that.”</p><p> </p><p>As the minutes passed, Danny tried to make himself think on something concrete. How being here would change the plan, maybe, or what they could do to get people out of the building and as far away as possible. How they’d get a bunch of plastic explosives into Madame fucking Tussauds, that would be helpful.</p><p> </p><p>Saying the buzz from his lap interrupted his train of thought would imply it had ever left the station, but the distraction was a welcome one regardless.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>How big is the troupe?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>I have no idea</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Ballpark.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Hundred or so, maybe?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>That seems high.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>It’s not like we had to worry about feeding everyone</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Point.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Christ, Danny was tired. Maybe he could get some coffee while he waited for the others to show up.</p><p> </p><p>The thought came right as the taxi pulled to a stop, and consequently right as he remembered he had zero money on him. G-ddammit.</p><p> </p><p>“I— I’m sorry, mate, but I don’t have any—”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need to finish. “The hell’d you hail a bloody cab for, then, if you—”</p><p> </p><p>“You can be mad at me for being a prick as much as you want, because I <em> should’ve </em>had that in mind, but I need you to hold off for, uh… a couple hours, alright? After that, get as pissed as you want.” Snap. “G-d, I— I’m really sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Before the driver could do more than stare with a slow blink, Danny slipped from the cab and into the crowds with Tim’s phone in hand.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Made it. I can definitely feel something from the place, and there’s a weird influx of people from out of town according to the cabby. It’s here</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>ETA 1:20hrs. Don’t do anything stupid before we get there.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Should I go in to get a lay of the land in the meantime?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Literally what did I just say.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Also how did you pay for a cab?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Uh</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Don't answer that.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p>As he got nearer to Madame Tussauds, he scanned over the crowd. By the entrance stood a man he didn’t recognize by the face, but the way his chest puffed out meant it could only be the strongman. A pair bustled around by the ever-increasing queue, spending as much time as they could arm in arm — the twin acrobats. Across the street, a figure leaned against the wall smoking a cigarette. Their precision as they tossed their lighter from hand to hand gave them away as the knife thrower.</p><p> </p><p>Rather than risk being seen before he was good and ready, Danny cut across the road and down a narrow residential street. The back of Madame Tussauds was far less decorated than its front, of course — utility over showmanship. No one to impress in the townhouses.</p><p> </p><p>On the far left side of the building lay a small inlet into the brick, empty of all but a bin. Rather tidy, all things considered, and as good a place as any to keep tabs on the ebb and flow of the Stranger. He could wait for his cue.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Any idea what the fire alarm system is like in there?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Why would I know that</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>You told me like five minutes ago not to go inside</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Worth asking.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>When nothing else came, Danny returned the phone to his pocket and, in one slow, exhausted motion, sat on the ground with his back against the brick. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, but getting up again would require energy he simply didn’t have.</p><p> </p><p>He was tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he <em> wasn’t </em>tired.</p><p> </p><p>It would be easy to say that he didn’t move when he heard a voice call out because of exhaustion alone. Maybe it was even true.</p><p> </p><p>“I knew it.” Joy spilled from every syllable. “I <em> knew </em>you’d come home, ringmaster.”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist’s grin was blinding as she scampered forward. She slowed enough for a pair of cartwheels, laughing the whole while, before coming to a halt right in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>There was no sign of hesitation when she sat right on the ground at his side, still smiling. The skirt she wore over her leotard protected it from the asphalt below. “I almost forgot how handsome you look in your proper costume.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course she thought he was back to join with the troupe. That illusion was the whole reason he’d worn it. Her thinking that suited the plan. He’d kept himself from wondering how she might react; for all the good it did him.</p><p> </p><p>When he said nothing, she scooted over to lean against him with her arm looped through his, then pillowed her head on the epaulette on that shoulder. She kept glancing up at him as if she couldn’t believe he was truly there. Even after this long, they slotted together as if he was formed to match her shape.</p><p> </p><p>With how much he changed with the troupe, maybe he was.</p><p> </p><p>She hummed, then wiggled the fingers she’d placed in his hand until they were laced with his own, white striped against brown.</p><p> </p><p>He felt more than heard a soft laugh as she said, “Hi, there.”</p><p> </p><p>Muscle memory answered for him. “Fancy seeing you here.”</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist laughed again. “I knew you would come home. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. Nikola didn’t believe me, but I always believed <em> you.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” Part of him wanted to push her away. Part of him wanted to hold onto this last bit of quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm!” She drew up her legs closer to her chest, tilted to the side to press that much more against him. “I understand why she was mad, because I was mad for awhile too, but I knew you would come home, and I knew when you did I could forgive you.”</p><p> </p><p>The word <em> forgive </em>from her soothed like morphine. “Because I could prove it, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right! A lot of us were upset when you left, especially because it upset Nikola so much and slowed down the whole dance. You can’t fix stuff like that when you’re not here.”</p><p> </p><p>In the August heat, her cold touch was strangely comfortable. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand in slow sweeps.</p><p> </p><p>Her knuckles were hinged, he knew, but her skin had as much give as his own. Cold, but not the same hard plastic as Nikola. Soft, but not the softness without structure beyond sawdust and cloves packed loosely into shape.</p><p> </p><p>She always looked the same, didn’t she? No costume changes.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t help the question, even as certain as he was that there’d be no point. “Who were you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Before.”</p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, she didn’t brush it off. “...I’ve been thinking about that, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were?”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded against his shoulder, then sat up to look more directly at him while still keeping her hold. “I thought about names, because I know you like names now! I thought, and thought, and thought, and I <em> think </em> I remember the name I used very first, <em> ages </em>ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” The playful pride in her voice made something warm curl inside him, as little as he wanted to admit it. “What is it?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “L-Y-E, </em>Lye!” she chirped. Her self-satisfied grin finally tugged a smile from him in return.</p><p> </p><p>Declaration made, she tucked herself against him once more. “And, when everything’s different, I thought we could use names, just for us. They don’t mean anything, but they matter to you, right?” The curl of her fingers in his jacket turned desperate. “So we can keep each other’s names safe, and you won’t leave, and I won’t be alone, and we’ll be okay. Right?”</p><p> </p><p>He wished more than he could say that no part of him wanted to agree. He wished that distance and a few conversations were all he needed to uproot her from his marrow. He wished that, when he looked at the scars on his hands, his first thought was one of the others wrapping them in gauze, not the press of a damp cloth to each cut and sorrow-heavy eyes. Not her. Not Lye.</p><p> </p><p>But then, the last time he fell, she caught him with that care, with a kiss and an, <em> I forgive you. </em> These past few days were nothing <em> but </em> falling, and every time he asked for a safety net, he got only a superficial, vague, <em> Everything’s going to be fine. </em></p><p> </p><p>It was a cruel recontextualization, and as soon as it rose in his thoughts, he hated himself for each moment it took to crush it down again.</p><p> </p><p>“Ringmaster?” The contortionist tilted her head to catch his eye with her own, the blue of them so pale they were almost colorless. Her nose scrunched as she continued, “Or, um. Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can still use my role, if you want.” His name in her mouth sounded like she was reading from the wrong script.</p><p> </p><p>She let out a short, content sigh. “Ringmaster suits you more, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>He wished he could argue. He wished he could agree.</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist was in no rush, glad to sit tucked against his side with eyes closed. The inherent vulnerability of it on top of her small stature made her appear laughably nonthreatening.</p><p> </p><p>If she hadn’t been in the troupe, he didn’t know if he would have survived as long as he did. She showed him how to keep in Nikola’s good graces, and how to perform his best no matter what role he was given. She helped treat injuries in whatever small ways she could. When everything hurt so badly he thought he might die, she was the one who helped him to his feet and whispered to keep walking, keep moving, because as soon as he was no longer a fit performer, that was it. If he was right, she’d had to learn the same lessons in the same dance of keeping her own skin. Did anyone guide her?</p><p> </p><p>She never left the troupe. He did. Here, now, she was nonthreatening because she believed he was back to stay. What reason did she have to threaten? Why bother with knives and conditioned words once they served their purpose?</p><p> </p><p>He knew she had manipulated him, of course. Blatantly. He knew she’d hurt his brother during their escape, if not throughout the entire week he was captive. She was willing to do whatever it took to pull him back to the troupe, no matter what Nikola might do to him upon that return. She wanted him close. All else was secondary.</p><p> </p><p>How could she possibly be both reward and punishment? How could the woman he trusted with his life onstage and off be the same one who so sweetly assured him he deserved injuries even as she treated them?</p><p> </p><p>He raised their laced hands to press hers to his lips as if there was any comfort to be found in the gesture. As if a poison could be its own antidote. <em> Pharmakon, </em>the Greeks called it — poison, remedy, and scapegoat. If she was the first two, he must have stood as the third; scarred and penitent.</p><p> </p><p>His head tilted to rest against her curls. Everything would be over soon. If only for one last time, he could have this.</p><p>“Everyone else missed you, too,” she said, breaking through his thoughts. “I did the most, of course, but we <em> all </em>missed you.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no admitting he missed them, too. He couldn’t. “You did?” There was no denying either.</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm. Even if you betrayed all of us, we’re still your troupe, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Yeah. Yeah, I know.” As much as he loathed to say it, he did.</p><p> </p><p>She sat up so she could face him, still hand in hand. “I mean, we’re your <em> family, </em> so of course we want you home. It doesn’t matter how badly you hurt us all. If you come home, we can forgive you. I already forgive you.”</p><p> </p><p>Each word dug like a scalpel despite their intended absolution. “And Nikola?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well… Well, she’s your family too, so we can make it work, okay?” Her eyes were wide and serious. “You’ll have every single one of us with you. She wants you home, too — she just didn’t think you’d come since you tried to make some new family. <em> I </em> knew you’d remember us when it didn’t work.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s patience. Jon's concern. Basira’s pride. Melanie’s laughter. Tim.</p><p> </p><p>“And whatever she has to do to make sure you’re really sorry, it’ll be okay.” The contortionist leaned in. “I and everyone else will be there after. We’ll take care of you, and then we can go anywhere you want once Nikola’s dance changes the world.”</p><p> </p><p>Her lips brushed his forehead, then followed down each cheek. She paused enough to say a soft, “I love you,” then set the last to his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>He wished he was lying when he murmured, “I love you, too.” When she beamed at him, instinct returned the smile.</p><p> </p><p>All that said, she at last hopped to her feet and tugged on the hand twined with hers. “Alright, ringmaster! We have a <em> lot </em>of work to do, so we should get going. Come on!”</p><p> </p><p>He could tell her to go on ahead of him and that he’d catch up, but there was no chance she’d let that happen. She hadn’t once let go of him since sitting down.</p><p> </p><p>Rather than pull away, he stood, and she looked up at him with that same wide, beaming grin. The phone in his pocket vibrated, but he couldn’t take it out now. Not unless he wanted to lose it.</p><p> </p><p>Still with her breathless, excited giggling, she hurried him to a back door. He let out a short laugh of his own.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you turn off the alarm? Just to sneak out to get me?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re special, mister ringmaster, but not <em> that </em>special,” she retorted, equal parts chiding and amused. “We have way too much stuff to bring in to worry about setting all those off, so one of the stagehands took care of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Fire alarms were not an option. Emergency exits were. More than nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“This way, this way!”</p><p> </p><p>The people walking through wore the slightly dazed look of anyone in their normal audiences. They chatted and took pictures as much as any other day, but when a large, taxidermy lion strode through, none so much as blinked. To them, it belonged as much as any waxwork.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, there’s plenty to do still. Moving here’s been a <em> pain, </em> even though Nikola decided it’s better than the other museum. Still, no one bothered us there, but this one is just <em> full </em>of people!”</p><p> </p><p>That much was clear — the place was packed. Some normal tourists. Some unlucky bystanders drawn in by the music. Some he personally invited.</p><p> </p><p>“Getting rid of the staff helped, and all, and having more costumes is always good, but it’s <em> slow. </em> Boring!”</p><p> </p><p>Fourteen bodies lay in the House of Wax. How much higher was the death toll, now? How many more would join their number before day's end? How much blood was on his hands?</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, hold on.” The squeeze of his hand in hers pulled him to look over, then follow her eyes to see what put a halt to her excited chattering.</p><p> </p><p>A few tourists up ahead clumped by a door with a cheery sign labeling it as an exhibit under construction. From the way they kept glancing around and prodding at each other, they were trying to goad each other into sneaking inside.</p><p> </p><p>The contortionist let out a heavy sigh. “Ugh, I need to take care of that. Stay right here, okay? Or— If you want to go say hi to some others, that’s alright, just <em> don’t </em>talk to Nikola without me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think I can do that much,” he said with a smile. The only part of her request he could answer without telling her yet another lie.</p><p> </p><p>“Good.” On her tiptoes, she gave him one last kiss. “I’ll be right back!”</p><p> </p><p>She would be, he knew. He would not be waiting. Instead, he fell into step with the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>He could leave right away, especially considering the emergency exits weren’t alarmed, but he needed to try something first.</p><p> </p><p>A clump in the previous room seemed promising enough. None reacted to his costume as they continued posing for pictures and studying the intricacies of each outfit. He paused to survey it all first, cautious, but as far as he could tell, there weren’t any strangers in this room.</p><p> </p><p>Arms folded, he remarked to one, “Does all this feel like a ripoff to you, too?”</p><p> </p><p>They looked back to him with clear confusion. “Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, it’s fine and all, but just… boring, right? Hell, I don’t even know who some of them are. Like, that woman there, she’s…” He snapped a few times as if trying to remember, each one louder than the last. “I don’t even <em> know </em>who she’s supposed to be!”</p><p> </p><p>The people near him nodded along as if he wasn’t gesturing to the waxen face of the Queen.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I mean… You’d think there’d be some higher quality stuff, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like, we paid for <em> this?” </em></p><p> </p><p>He looked over the group. “Honestly, if you guys wanted to get out of here and go to the zoo or something, I wouldn’t blame you. That’s what I was gonna do.”</p><p> </p><p>Another one sighed. “We kinda have to go through the whole thing, right? Besides, they’re supposed to be unveiling some new exhibit in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughed, cringing. “Uh, I snuck a look inside to see if it was worth it, and it was just…” More snaps. “Just a bunch of figures of clowns and all, from what I could tell. No one famous or anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Creepy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right?” He pointed towards the door he came in through with one thumb over his shoulder. “Look, the side doors aren’t even alarmed. Don’t torture yourself by trying to figure out who the hell each one is supposed to be, because it’s <em> not </em>worth knowing.”</p><p> </p><p>A few of the guests laughed, some others traded looks as if to say, <em> Do you want to…? Are we really going to…? </em></p><p> </p><p>One shrugged and went first, and that was all the rest needed. The area cleared out in moments.</p><p> </p><p>Before anyone else could show up, he followed behind. Standing there all day and telling everyone to leave wouldn’t work for the same reason Martin’s original idea of holding off the audience wouldn’t, but it was <em> something. </em> When things got closer to the point of no return, he might be able to get even more.</p><p> </p><p>Another buzz from his pocket. Whoops.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Fifteen minutes out. Where are you?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Danny.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>Danny.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>If you don’t reply in five minutes, we’re moving under the assumption that you’re stuck inside. </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Not stuck, sorry</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>What the hell were you doing?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>I’ll explain when you guys get here</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny: </b></span>Meet me at Baker Street Food Station</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira: </b></span>ETA 3min.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>The three minutes it took for the others to get there wasn’t enough to assuage whatever worry lingered after his period of radio silence, if their faces were anything to go by. He could feel bad about it later.</p><p> </p><p>“You alright?” Tim said as they all took seats at the table he’d snagged. Self-service here, thankfully, so no wait staff would interrupt them.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine. Figured out a few things while I was waiting.” He sat forward in his chair. “Any staff there is part of the troupe in their skin, and there’s a good amount of Stranger influence over the place already. I don’t know how long they’ve been around, but long enough to really permeate the building.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy nodded once. “Staff’s enemy. We have what we need, so we should move.”</p><p> </p><p>“Unless you noticed anything else,” Basira added.</p><p> </p><p>“You asked about alarms — they’re all disconnected, and the emergency exits won’t set them off.”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming you had a damn good reason to go inside.”</p><p> </p><p>It was a fair leap in logic — he couldn't have found that out otherwise. “One of the troupe came outside and recognized me, and since we planned on me playing along, I couldn’t exactly book it. I figured it was a chance to get some more information about the inside, and when there was an opening, I got out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Someone saw you.” Danny didn’t have to look over to feel Tim studying him. “It was her, wasn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed. “Don’t ask if you know the answer.”</p><p> </p><p>“Either way, he’s out. The plan hasn’t changed.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon elaborated on Daisy’s point. “On the whole, no. Gertrude’s… <em> supplies </em>were meant for somewhere much smaller, but it doesn’t need to level the building. All we have to do is destroy the dancer after the Unknowing begins — the Slaughter avatar who did the same at the last attempt only needed a cannon.”</p><p> </p><p>“I should stick with Daisy while she’s planting the explosives then, right?” Danny asked. “And make sure people look the other way. The Stranger presence is strong enough in there that they might not notice her at all.”</p><p> </p><p>“What are we doing about them? To get them out, I mean.” Tim’s arms crossed as he thought.</p><p> </p><p>Danny rested his elbows on the table and stared down at his laced hands. “While we’re going through, I can tell as many people as I can to leave, kind of like our original plan with the audience.”</p><p> </p><p>“And we’re <em> certain </em>they’ll listen?” Jon pressed. “Even though the same power is the one keeping them there?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm the reason a majority of them came at all.” He wasn’t the only one who invited people to shows, but he was far and away the best at it. He’d even made a point of telling people about this final act early so they would have time to spread the word. Lifetimes ago, but age didn’t negate consequence. “They’ll listen to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could also try.” In the sunlight right by the window, Jon’s eyes looked almost silver. “Not the same as you, of course, but if the presence of the Stranger is keeping people disorientated and unaware of their more inhuman company, giving them some measure of Sight may be enough for them to clear out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Unless that just makes them panic.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon conceded to Tim with a nod. “It wouldn’t be full Sight, if I can help it — just enough that they know something is wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do we know where the performance itself is?” Daisy asked.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a ‘new exhibit’ under construction.” The audible scare quotes weren’t necessary, not with how obvious the whole concept was. “In the center of the place.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira glanced at Daisy. “Your patrol, my watch?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.”</p><p> </p><p>To the other three, she continued, “Danny and Daisy plant the stuff. Danny, you get as many out as you can. Jon, start on the top floor and work your way down to make people see enough that they want to leave. Tim, you guard him. I’ll stay close to the center and keep watch on the construction. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny had no argument; Tim, the same. Jon worried his lip.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s the range on the detonator, again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Also meant for somewhere smaller,” Daisy answered. “Whoever hits it will have to be close. This setup’ll <em>im</em>plode instead of <em> ex</em>plode, so the other buildings should be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny held out his hand. “I’ll take it.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim knocked it away. “If we don’t get everyone out before the show starts, what then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then we don’t get everyone out.” Daisy’s voice was perfectly level, and she looked unaffected by the silence her reply settled over them.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyone we don’t get out is as much part of the final audience as they would’ve been at the House of Wax,” Danny said at last. “Meaning the plan hasn’t changed, there. I’ll do what I can.”</p><p> </p><p>When no one else spoke up for a few seconds, Daisy decided for them all as she pushed herself up to stand. “We need to get moving.” No more debate. Every second they wasted was that many more potential lives lost.</p><p> </p><p>“I should go through first,” Danny told the rest as they crossed the street. “Just to get to as many people as I can.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Not by yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny wished he would make up his damn mind. Whenever he so much as suggested being in a different room, Tim got all protective, but as soon as they were together he went back to that infuriating flatness. Some coping mechanism for how bad today would be, Danny supposed, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating to put up with.</p><p> </p><p>“Having someone with me will just make it harder. You know how it works by now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll stick with Daisy and map out the structural supports,” Basira decided. “When you get back, that’s when she’ll start planting them.”</p><p> </p><p>As he led them to the same back door, Danny nodded, then opened in by a crack. One by one, they slipped inside. Danny followed just in time to hear Daisy give a quiet, “Hm.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s clear.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Did you <em>honestly</em> think I was—”</p><p> </p><p>Basira cut in before Danny could finish, though based on Tim’s glare, he was giving some serious consideration to taking up the mantle.</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t have time for this. Danny, go.”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need to be told twice. <em> Exit, pursued by ex-cop </em>— if Daisy had her way, at any rate.</p><p> </p><p>The back stairwell was blessedly empty, so nothing blocked his way as he rushed to the very top with thoughts racing. He couldn’t lay his own abilities on too thick — that’d end the same as him cupping his hands around his mouth to shout, <em> One free ringmaster for the skinning! </em>At the same time, it needed to be enough to have some actual impact.</p><p> </p><p>A tightrope. Delightful.</p><p> </p><p>There was no telling how many people it’d take for the troupe to realize what was happening and seal the exits. Danny could call as many of them to listen as he wanted after that point, but they had no perfectly marked escape route here.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t focus on that now. There was a job to do, and only him who could do it.</p><p> </p><p>Circumstances meant he couldn’t stop and have one-on-one chats with patrons, or slowly rally a group like he had before. All he could do was talk, but he didn’t need to be near them for that.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This isn’t very interesting, is it? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They didn’t even have to know it was him speaking.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And you’re tired, too. Your back aches, doesn’t it? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Low volume and good projection could do wonders.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You want to leave, don’t you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Crowds shuffled along.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’ve wanted to go since you got here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His audiences, all gathered together for this last show.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s too nice out to spend the day inside. Didn’t you notice it when you were in that endless, annoying queue? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They would watch from the sidelines.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There’s barely any staff. The side exits aren’t even alarmed. Wouldn’t you rather be home? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>All they needed was a subliminal nudge.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Seriously, you paid that much for this? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a while before he saw any of the troupe, as little a comfort as that was.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You don’t need to pretend. You can leave. It’s okay. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>If they weren’t here, they were collecting somewhere else. Busy.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There’s something wrong, isn’t there? These figures are unsettling, aren’t they? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One waxen hand attempted to catch his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Uncanny. Wrong. There’s something here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He needed to shift by only a degree to move smoothly past without breaking stride.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There’s plenty of exits, though. You want to go home, don’t you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He was being followed by one, but he could lose them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re so tired, so bored, so achy and sore and afraid. Go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He was made to stand out to audiences, but as a troupe they blended into one whole. When not performing his role, he was one of their number. A piece of the puzzle. A cog in Nikola’s lovely, strange music box.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The show is better seen from offstage, isn’t it? Go on. The doors are unobstructed, unlocked, unbarred. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A turn and another and a third. His speech came in threes right along with it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Go on, go. No need to rush. No need to startle anyone. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Patterns were such lovely things, after all, and when his equally-lovely old troupemates lost themselves in neat little rows he could continue right along.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s time to go home, isn’t it? Aren’t you so very tired? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Some of the guests were talking to each other, spreading the same whispers. Very good.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Good. Good. Go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another grasp, this time for his leg. A slightly higher step was all that took. No obvious stomp down to crush the wax. To a viewer, it would look like he hadn’t even noticed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on, come on. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No snaps, not yet. Not here. Not now. No need to broadcast.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So many other places to go. So many other people to see. So many other days to live. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The center drew close. Center stage, wasn’t that fun? No spotlight, not yet, but soon.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And this stage is not meant for you. Your role is not here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>This was not his part to play, the clarity and the seeing-past, but if he spoke, ears listened. His role would be flexible.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Direct your attention to this side of the stage, ladies and gentlemen. Leave your seats. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jack of all trades, wasn’t that how it went? Master of none, him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Leave your seats and return home. Aren’t there so very many people you’ll miss? Who will miss you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nearer still and his destination was here, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But yours is there, out there. Away. Go on, you want to go. Listen. Listen. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No grasping hands in his periphery, though some figures’ eyes moved. He didn’t look again. They were there, and he knew they were there. No need for them to know he knew.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This new exhibit looks bland, doesn’t it? Not worth waiting around for. Go on. Leave, and go home, and </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“—don’t <em> touch </em>me.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira’s brows were high as she glanced to where his hand wrapped tight around her wrist.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t look like you noticed us, not even when I said your name.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny blinked. “Right. Right, sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you let go of me now?”</p><p> </p><p>Another blink, and he unclenched his hand. She could have broken his hold in a moment, he knew, and probably his wrist besides. Appreciating that she didn’t do so felt strange. She had means and motive, but didn’t take the action. Saintly.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you were doing worked,” Basira said if nothing had happened. Talking to her was like taking a bucket of icy water to the face — a shock to the system, with an odd blend of disorientation and clarity. “It’s thinned out some.”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you heard from Tim and Jon?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re fine. They started on the bottom to clear out what you might not be able to reach.”</p><p> </p><p>“We need to move,” Daisy interrupted. She didn’t wait for affirmation, and Basira didn’t look like she intended to say anything else. Two of their own cogs, ticking away together.</p><p> </p><p>Danny followed behind. He had a role to fill.</p><p> </p><p>At the end of the day, his abilities weren’t camouflage. He wasn’t setting up some sort of invisibility screen. Nothing he did could make Daisy cease to appear.</p><p> </p><p>No, he was smoke and mirrors. Redirection.</p><p> </p><p>“This’s it.” Without a single break in her stride, Daisy made for a large column in the center of the room. Danny could ask questions, of course, or find some way to assist in affixing whatever it was she would pull out of the duffel bag slung around her back.</p><p> </p><p>He could, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he took up post a few meters away and froze.</p><p> </p><p>As tall as he was, dressed as he was, he caught attention. Whenever he felt it drift, he shifted, just slightly. A finger, maybe, or a slight glint of his eyes. Minute, just so that those who were aware enough to catch it <em> had </em> to study him closer, or else tap a friend and ask, <em> Did it just…? Is that one…? </em></p><p> </p><p>The interesting show was here. Pay no attention to the woman by the column. Or should he quote the Tin Man?</p><p> </p><p>Christ, first the <em> Winter’s Tale </em> joke, then <em> Wizard of Oz. </em>He really was spending too much time around Tim.</p><p> </p><p>“Cut it out. I’m done.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny unfroze, shooting an amused smile to the side as the one intently studying the embroidery on his jacket sleeve leapt away with a gasp.</p><p> </p><p>“Worked, didn’t it? Where to next?”</p><p> </p><p>“This way.”</p><p> </p><p>The offbeat reality filling the museum meant, as he stepped in and out of his distraction, people’s eyes scanned right past. They might wonder if he’d been there a moment ago, but ultimately decide that <em> surely </em> he was. If a figure was there, it was <em> always </em>there. They’d spend more time questioning their own sanity than they did his presence. If their discomfort meant they picked up the pace, even better.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter much to her that his little game meant people missed her work — Daisy hated it. Danny couldn’t see much of her from his place as a statue, but like Jon her attention was tangible. More of a crosshair than a microscope, but deadly precise either way.</p><p> </p><p>“Last one.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny scanned the newest room, then joined Daisy at the column. She looked askance at him even as she kept at work.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Keeping watch, of course,” he answered with a wink. “Here, let me—”</p><p> </p><p>He crouched, ignoring her glare as he dug in the bag as if he had any idea what the hell it was he was poking around in. At least plastic explosives were stable.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep going and don’t react to what I say,” he murmured. “But four of the wax figures in here are members of the troupe.” Still wearing a pleasant smile, he handed her a roll of duct tape. “Two by the far door, one right behind me, one by the door we came in.”</p><p> </p><p>He watched her eyes dart around the room, but she kept a level head, just as he expected she would. “And the two on my left?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny risked a split-second glance. “Alive, not troupe members.”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever she thought about that, he couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. There was nothing she or Danny could do for them.</p><p> </p><p>As he stood again to lean against the pillar and keep a slightly more active watch, smiling just wrong at passersby to keep them moving along, his phone vibrated.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody"><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira:</b></span>ETA</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Danny:</b></span>Almost done</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Basira:</b></span>Hurry</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Daisy held out a hand without breaking focus on her work. “Tape.”</p><p> </p><p>Plenty close enough for her to reach it. He didn’t argue, just crouched again to hand it over.</p><p> </p><p>“What’d watch say?” Daisy’s lips barely moved.</p><p> </p><p>“Just to hurry.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m done here. They going to let us walk out?”</p><p> </p><p>“If we go towards the stage. If we try to leave, they’ll stop us.” He scanned the room in his periphery. “Either way, they probably won’t leave <em> this </em>here.”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy openly snickered. “If any of them know how to disarm it all, sure.” Less quiet, like she was hoping one of them heard. A threat, maybe, or a taunt.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” The hand outstretched in request was Danny's, this time. “I’ll take the detonator, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Another laugh. “Sure you will. Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>Irritating. He would get it when the show began. Under that sort of pressure, there was no way any of them could disagree that he was the most logical choice to detonate. It required proximity. This would take him out anyway. What did it matter?</p><p> </p><p>Irritation didn’t mask sense: when they picked up another tail, he could feel it.</p><p> </p><p>“Daisy—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll follow me if we split up.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. You stay where I can see you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wrong place for that, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could argue, he turned a sudden corner. She was too set on the plan to mess anything up by charging along behind.</p><p> </p><p>As he’d hoped, the pair at his back followed. He was the one causing the most direct headache; clearing out the audience before the show even began. He wouldn’t be able to outrun them, of course. Attempting would be pointless in such a closed space.</p><p> </p><p>The first move, he decided, was his.</p><p> </p><p>Abrupt halt, pivot on his heel, arms held open in a grand welcome.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, gentlemen!” he declared, smiling wide. “Lovely to see you both again. It’s been too long.”</p><p> </p><p>The couriers couldn’t loom over him when he was almost the same height, but they gave it their best.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, ringmaster,” one said. This long away made the thick Cockney accent sound even more false.</p><p> </p><p>The other finished the thought, as was their way. “Welcome back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, it’s good to be back.” He looked them both over expectantly. “It doesn’t seem like you have anything to deliver for me, though, so I’m assuming you have the wrong addressee. You’re properly busy, I’m sure, and we don’t have time for mistakes <em> today.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“We don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘S why we were sent—”</p><p> </p><p>“—to clean one up.”</p><p> </p><p>Christ, he forgot about their whole ‘finishing each other’s sentences’ shtick. Hammy at best. Certainly not something he ever would’ve sunk to on his stage. “Is that so?”</p><p> </p><p>One grunted a laugh. “We deliver packages but—”</p><p> </p><p>“—we also pick them up.”</p><p> </p><p>A curled lip marred his smile. “Don’t hurt yourself with that extended metaphor. Nikola wants to see me, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t say in how many pieces.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go with just the one, if you don’t mind.” He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Shall we?”</p><p> </p><p>“After you—”</p><p> </p><p>“—ringmaster.”</p><p> </p><p>As much as he told himself with each step that the plan hadn’t changed, he was no more eager to reach their destination. The role, the title, they wrapped his fear in silk and kept him smiling, always smiling, but they never assuaged. The tight grips around each upper arm did his pounding heart no favors.</p><p> </p><p>He hoped the others wouldn’t argue and fuss over him before at last detonating. They wouldn’t let whatever happened to him drag out. Nikola would want to enjoy herself, they had to know that, and they weren’t cruel.</p><p> </p><p>Step after step after firing-squad step. Gold tipped his shoes and wine filled his veins.</p><p> </p><p>If they thought it would save him, they might learn cruelty.</p><p> </p><p>A cheerful sign warned him and his ushers that this part of the building was under construction. One courier held the door ajar, the other shoved his back. He kept his footing. He wasn’t one who stumbled. Not here. Not now. Not ever.</p><p> </p><p>Music filled his head and his lungs as soon as he crossed the threshold. The choir was loud, earth-shatteringly so, and he wondered how those outside could possibly not hear their screaming harmony.</p><p> </p><p>It was contained still, he supposed. The space was massive, far bigger than the humble plywood boarding walling it off from the outside could ever hold, but physical space was little more than suggestion here. Nikola wanted it this size, so it was, and when the curtain rose, everything and all things would be what she wanted, too.</p><p> </p><p>Here, now, what she wanted was him.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my <em> ringmaster!” </em>Cold, sharpsafe hands in his and a wide, rictus grin. “Welcome home. There will be punishment, my love, but first…”</p><p> </p><p>Stage lights fell in every, all colors and the music pounded into his heart as they whirled.</p><p> </p><p>“First, we <em> dance.” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: canon-typical violence/death, references to skinning, manipulation, gaslighting, discussions of abuse, stranger-typical unreality </p><p>hello to all the new watchlists that researching c4/semtex and talking abt blowing up madame tussauds this much has put me on. </p><p>i've also posted a promo for the fic as a whole since we're wrapping up, [<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369396766670848/titanfalling-anyone-else-ever-thought-huh-i">which you can reblog here!</a>]</p><p>in the wings: the show<br/>(a heads up: <i>every</i> CW up to this point is relevant in ch. 16, barring transmisogyny. specifics will as always be in the end note)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. THE HANGED MAN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On endings.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The lights deafened and the tempo blinded and the break-skin bone-shed dance carried itself through pounding hearts too numerous to ever count and too few to ever stop here. Who was who was you could never matter when each note was the only identity that held truth in its falsehoods. </p><p> </p><p>Cold lay against his skin. Air or plastic or pain he had yet to feel. </p><p> </p><p>He knew this dance. It was all he knew. </p><p> </p><p>No. No, that implied there was anything else <em> to </em> know, and he was no fool. The dance was nothing more than itself, and itself was all. All and none and back around again.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know how,” he said, not the ringmaster, not yet, not yet. </p><p> </p><p>A warm smile and freezing touch. “That’s okay. We’ll teach you. You’re one of us now.”</p><p> </p><p>Relief and revulsion melted into a blend that drowned him as much as it gave him life — scene and set and stage all as one.</p><p> </p><p>He was waiting for something. What was it? What was he expecting would happen? There was something that needed to happen, something important.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t think. If he thought too hard he would slip. He knew that. It was a lesson learned and learned and lived, mirrored on itself a thousand times over. Blood for knowledge wasn’t the fairest of trades, but expecting fairness was simply a good way to get killed, and if the ringmaster knew anything, it was preservation. </p><p> </p><p>So he danced. Danced to the rhythm of the game and the show and the pounding of his heart still fiercely alive under stripped and scarred and forever <em> his </em>skin. </p><p> </p><p>The dancer released him. </p><p> </p><p>“Go explore, my ringmaster.” Each word felt helium-heavy and lead-light. Sharpsafe loving hands held his face, and he wanted to lean into the touch as much as he wanted to tear himself free of ceramic-cage fingers. Stock-still was safest — another lesson learned and learned again. “See the world we’re creating.”</p><p> </p><p>He did as told. Always. </p><p> </p><p>First, the audience. The scores of those lucky enough to see the world made new from the front row, turned into catalysts and risen curtains, all worked over by the dollmaker in their becoming. </p><p> </p><p>A tailor’s work never ended, a fact the dollmaker knew well, carried in its tireless stitching and pulling and forever cut, cut, cutting of cloth. Fine materials were crucial, no doubt, but one must show gratitude for quantity all the same. Today, it had a screamlaughing surplus. </p><p> </p><p>It was as much tailor as it was conductor, bringing out a voice in the shyest of singers. They sang until they could not, and what song was more heart-swelling and gut-wrenching than one of so much passion?</p><p> </p><p>He used to sing like that, sing and sing and sing until he asked to dance instead. They allowed him that, but movement was no protection when bound to a razor’s edge — injuries delayed bled the same. He danced regardless. What choice did he have? The dancer never made mistakes as foolish as giving him options.</p><p> </p><p>Someone told him he would never be back here. They did and they were wrong. He could only thank them for it. Why would he want to be anywhere else? Where else made the ringmaster smile like this? Smiles meant joy and they meant terror which in turn meant those were one and the same. </p><p> </p><p>But that person didn’t lie. They didn’t, unless they did, and Leo didn’t know. The Leo in him wanted this to feel wrong. He wanted this dance to hurt with each step. He wanted the spincolor to horrify him. He wanted to be afraid. </p><p> </p><p>It was more natural than the breath in his lungs. He was the ringmaster and he was created for this and he was Leo and had no purpose and he was— he was someone who wanted to go home. </p><p> </p><p>An odd thought. Everywhere and nowhere was home. </p><p> </p><p>But it was not home for everyone and no one. Who? Who was here who was supposed to be not here? Who was still a who?</p><p> </p><p>Not he, not him, not the nothing no one backup costume turned pitchman turned acrobat turned so many roles his head spun turned ringmaster turned wrong. </p><p> </p><p>All he had to do to begin his music box spinning was ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Smile for me!”</p><p> </p><p>He must have misheard. He must have misunderstood. There was no way it was asking him to <em> smile </em>with lines of fire ripped up his chest and limbs and those sharp cutting things still hungry and ready at the corner of his eye and the pounding off all the things he knew he didn’t know splitting his skull in two.</p><p> </p><p><em> “What?” </em>The word tore its way from his throat in a rasp.</p><p> </p><p>It pointed to the postmortem grin on its own face, stolen skin affixed messy and bloody over blank white plastic.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Smile, </em> lovely! You’re very pretty, after all, even in <em> such </em> a mess.”</p><p> </p><p>He did. What else was there?</p><p> </p><p>Even now he didn’t know if it was his expression or his obedience that saved him. They were little more than the same in the end. </p><p> </p><p>Better to let her choose. Choices were trapdoors when they were his. Whether by chaining circumstance or premade punishment for the crime of attempted autonomy or simple self-sabotage, he fell. He fell and he shattered and he put himself back together; temporary, always temporary. </p><p> </p><p>Temporary, yes, this was temporary. He was certain there was another somewhere outside this one. This was a place and places had edges even in their warping and that meant there were different places. Better ones. Ones with no cutting points around every corner or injuries inflicted and healed a hundred times over without a scar to show for it.</p><p> </p><p>What did he do to earn that good before? He’d done much to lose it, of course he had, no point in denying that. Part of the show, always the show. </p><p> </p><p>He wished his head would stop pounding aching migraine-splitting. She used to always pop up when his headaches got too bad, there to soothe them away with cool fingers and a kiss. Where was she? </p><p> </p><p>No. No, she was gone, and that was— that was good. Wasn’t it? It was good for a reason he couldn’t remember now, and part of him wanted to disregard it for that alone, but the someone had told him it was good. Not in so many words, but in dark looks shielding arms always, always listening. </p><p> </p><p>Yes, there were others here. People he came here with. He needed to keep them safe. He had to, he was the only one who could. </p><p> </p><p>The notes left him wrong-footed and lightspun, and he was made for this song. How much worse would it be for one with eyes so wide the allthing nothing could only blind them; or who could chase and chase and chase but here would never catch their prize; or who drew lines between light and dark lost in this place of gradients; or who was solid and sure and <em> there </em>in shifting miasma? </p><p> </p><p>He knew those people, and he unknew this place. He knew they would try to know, and would fail, and would not take that failure as a sign to relent no matter the damage it did. </p><p> </p><p>He knew they knew he didn’t know in just the right way. It was important.</p><p> </p><p>“During the escape after we got—” </p><p> </p><p>Got someone. Someone. Who? Why did he bother asking something so pointless?</p><p> </p><p>“You did something to make yourself more clear.”</p><p> </p><p>He did, he did, he must. He must.</p><p> </p><p>If he was the ringmaster then this was his stage, and if this was his stage then it was his to command. The dancer was the centerpiece, but if she didn’t want him to pull strings then she shouldn’t have used them to bind his hands. </p><p> </p><p>Just as he’d told… told that person, he was one cog versus its own machine. He couldn’t force the whole to spin to his own design, not when there were so few other pieces in his grasp. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t change the whole, but those pieces? Round and round and round they went, and though counterclockwise sat antithetical to something unbound by clocks and countering, they would spin as such because they were his and him and he did as he was told. He shoved fingers between their spokes and gritted teeth among their colors.</p><p> </p><p>Today would not be the day he died, until he did, and that <em> then </em> was not this <em> now. </em> He did not write this script, but he followed it to the letter. There was far too much to do yet. </p><p> </p><p>With a grinding splitscream, he joined the choir, and the screech of brass and quicklime offered discordant harmony. His hands locked around his head in some futile attempt to contain the bolts of colorpain. When the worst of it passed, he let go expecting to come away with ceramic shards of his skull lodged in his palms. </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing, and in the nothing was something. It would have to be enough. </p><p> </p><p>He needed to find it. Whatever <em> it </em>was, he hadn’t quite put together, but he knew it was here. One of the others had it. He needed to get it, then make them leave. There were edges to this place, and other places outside it. If he found one, he might be able to find the others, and in turn they could find their way to a different somewhere.</p><p> </p><p>First, then — find one of them. Easier thought than said than done. </p><p> </p><p>Navigation was a pointless effort with a destination in mind; all the better that he had none. No, his world narrowed in on the still-breathing not-singing. There weren’t many left. </p><p> </p><p>This one was hard to miss, barely-contained wildfire that she was. Her growling fury carried on its own tune without any effort to harmonize with the disharmony pressing in on all sides. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as she saw him, she snarled, “Stay <em> back.” </em>She stood hunched, weight kept low. Her hands were empty, curled in on air and her own claws. He could have sworn she had the— she had— but no, she didn’t. Still, she was a someone which meant she wasn’t made for here. </p><p> </p><p>“Hold on, I—” The fact that his voice worked for anything outside the choir almost stunned him back into silence, but silence was failure and failure was wrong. “It’s me, you— you know me, and I know you.” If she had a name, it wasn’t here. </p><p> </p><p>Her stance didn’t change, even as she bared her teeth. “I don’t care.” </p><p> </p><p>Bad. Very bad. </p><p> </p><p>“No, I— Come on, we need to find—” Find what? Who? “We—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Leave.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t understand. “You know me, I swear, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you.” Jackal laughter. “I know <em> what.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Before he could try and put words to an olive branch he didn’t know the shape of, she made use of that low, coiling tension and pounced.</p><p> </p><p>His grip on the cogs of the everything allcolor spin slipped as he dodged, and it was only that slip that saved him. He was fast, she was faster, even here. No question of it. All he could do was fall back into blur and retreat until she forgot she remembered him at all. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t make sense in a way that made perfect sense. Her wolfteeth had itched to close around his throat this whole time, hadn’t they? His grin bared his own. To her, he must have spent every moment in challenge. </p><p> </p><p>If he thought it would save him, he would have stopped, but keeping it worked this long. He wasn’t sure he knew <em> how </em>to stop anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Smiles came to him with ease, most of the time. Smiles, laughter, all of it. Not just when he was happy, no — he’d always been a nervous smiler, too, from all the way back when his parents’ screaming left him sleepless and he crept as lightly as he could to his brother’s room and <em> no, </em> he wasn’t <em> upset, </em>he just left his Gameboy in here and would it be okay if he stayed and played Pokemon for a while?</p><p> </p><p>Now was no different. Part of him stupidly, suicidally wished it was. Part of him wished he was the rebel his brother had been as a teenager, with his long hair and painted nails and dates with the boy from his maths class no matter what their mother said.</p><p> </p><p>He had rebelled in his own ways, of course. Dates with the boy on his baseball team kept quiet because, no matter how happy his brother claimed to be out of either parent’s house, he didn’t fancy living alone as a teenager, especially not at fifteen to his brother’s seventeen. Stunts for that rush of adrenaline, where the stupider someone claimed it was, the more eager he got to pull it off; where he’d ended up with a broken arm three times over before leaving secondary school and not a single regret for any of them.</p><p> </p><p>As much as he did things others claimed were stupid (like come to Covent Garden at all, even though his brother told him so many times it was a bad idea with that resignation that showed up when it was obvious he wouldn’t listen, and g-d, his brother tried to <em> help </em>like he did so many times before, and maybe if he survived this he could someday say how sorry he was that he never, ever listened), he was no idiot. Here, rebellion meant death. Slow and screaming, he knew, because he was far from the only human here, and no matter how hazy they left his head, he knew screaming well, and knew better how impossible it was to ignore. </p><p> </p><p>He decided, then and there, that would not ever be him. His last breath would not be spent on equal parts terror and choked relief. </p><p> </p><p>With conviction as his only refuge and freezing metal still latched around his ankles and wrists, he smiled, and smiled, and smiled.</p><p> </p><p>No, there was no stopping here.</p><p> </p><p>“Ringmaster, where’d you go?”</p><p> </p><p>Lilting and sweet and he could not stop. Even more reason to continue, now. If she caught up, his conviction might not be enough. The show must go on, as she always said, and if he heard her say it so warmly he might forget what it cost — or else, or worse, remember without a care.</p><p> </p><p>He dug into the spinspokes once more, once more grit his teeth through neon that stabbed through his head and bucked his control. Held fast. The one before, she would continue her own hunt, and he had no desire to intervene when it would make him prey. What that would mean for her—</p><p> </p><p>No thinking about it, not when there were others to find. </p><p> </p><p>She found her way to him first, dark-eyed and unrelenting. The fabric covering her hair caught the light in all the ways cloth shouldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as she saw him, she went still, hand drifting to her hip. A good sign. She was clear enough for muscle memory, even if she no longer could recall what she was reaching for or how to use it once drawn. </p><p> </p><p>His hands went up. She might not remember the exact meaning of the gesture, but at least then she would know he wasn’t holding anything that could harm her.</p><p> </p><p>“It— It’s me, you know me.”</p><p> </p><p>She studied him. “Who are you, then?” The words were slurred, though her eyes bored into him all the same. </p><p> </p><p>He almost laughed. “If I figure it out, I’ll let you know. We— Do you know where the—” G-d, what <em> was </em>it? </p><p> </p><p>Before he could find some roundabout way to ask in the hopes she might have some insight, something shifted behind her. She spun quick as a whip and drew from her hip holster. Muscle memory did her more good as her finger squeezed the trigger. </p><p> </p><p>A small banner unfurled from the thing’s end, reading <em> BANG! </em>in blocky red letters. Her hiss of frustration took only a beat before she reared back and smacked the being behind her with it across its blank plastic face, sending the being skittering to the ground and back into colorblur. </p><p> </p><p>He stared, wide-eyed and very glad she had the presence of mind to not immediately pistol-whip him in the same way.</p><p> </p><p>Right. Pistol. She had a gun, yes, because…  </p><p> </p><p>The <em> because </em>didn’t matter. She had it and she was here and he found her. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I— I know you.” There was little certainty in her voice. Little was more than none. “We need to get…” Confusion rolled across her face in a cloud of nitrous oxide. “There’s other people here, we need to— we need to get to…” </p><p> </p><p>“We need to stop it. All of it.”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded sharply, focused now with a goal. “Have you seen anyone else?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just the dancer and—” The other one, she had a name. She did. Hard to find it when he couldn’t find his own. “The hunter, she—”</p><p> </p><p>The woman’s head snapped to attention. “Where? Or… When, or—?”</p><p> </p><p>Hard to differentiate those herenow. “I don’t know, but we can’t stop for her.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to find her.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman’s name was on the tip of his tongue, it <em> was, </em>if he concentrated he could—</p><p> </p><p>Gone. It didn’t matter. “You can’t find her, you know you can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care.” She looked away from him, scanning for a truth in the warped, crowded emptiness around them. “Soon as you’re gone, will I still be clear?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try to hold onto you as best I can, but if you don’t stick with me—”</p><p> </p><p>“I need to find Daisy.”</p><p> </p><p>Fear jumped in his chest at the casual use of a lie, and the pain in his head folded on itself once again. He could hardly breathe. “If we split up, I don’t know if I’ll be able to find you again. You—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not leaving her.” Solid as sand. Mutable as obsidian. </p><p> </p><p>Desperate but conceding, he grabbed her by the shoulders to ensure he had her full attention. “Look, I— I’ll try to hold onto you, but if I can’t, just… Remember that this is a <em> place, </em> which means that it <em> ends. </em>There’s an outside this if you can find it.”</p><p> </p><p>She said nothing, only nodded. It wasn’t enough, it never would be, but if he tried to pull her along, there would be nothing to differentiate him from the other stringbound puppeteers filling this somewhere.</p><p> </p><p>He let her go. It was a death sentence. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as he did, she vanished without an ounce of hesitation. He dug into yet another sharpspoked cog as his fingers bled, desperate to halt its spinning enough to keep any more death off his human-but-false hands. </p><p> </p><p>He was so tired of wine.</p><p> </p><p>The sight of her towel covered in that same color always made him itch under his skin, but she seemed to pick up on that well enough, and kept it out of view whenever she could. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I can’t <em> prove </em> he’s a werewolf,” she said as she worked away across his shoulder. A high pitched needlebuzz undercut each word. “But when we went out for dinner, he straight told the waiter to make sure his steak was as rare as the chef could <em> legally make it."” </em></p><p> </p><p>His brother laughed, and he wondered if werewolves showed up in any of the— the statements in the— </p><p> </p><p><em> “I </em> think a werewolf stepdad would be pretty cool,” he said as he carefully reached up with the arm she wasn’t working over to tuck one of the flowers more securely into her cloud of black curls — a daffodil.</p><p> </p><p>“At least he’s not a vampire,” she conceded. “It’d make going over to my mum’s house tricky, if he could smell blood past the ink.”</p><p> </p><p>“See?” His brother grinned. “Always an up side.”</p><p> </p><p>He was tired of wine and tired of hurt and tired of fear, but putting up with those meant building a new mark on his skin, given by a friend rather than an owner. It would never be finished, now, but he could appreciate the fragment.</p><p> </p><p>It matched, after all. Not in shape, not in definition. In core.</p><p> </p><p>When the other half of the shared piece emerged at last from falsehoods, he nearly drowned in relief. </p><p> </p><p>His brother stopped in his tracks, staring at him like he was a ghost. “I— You…” Voice faded under the weight of shock.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, thank <em> g-d.” </em>He almost staggered as he attempted to hold onto yet another spinning piece. “I wasn’t sure if I would—”</p><p> </p><p>“You died.” His brother’s flat disbelief had yet to go anywhere. “You died. I saw you die.” </p><p> </p><p>They didn’t have time for this. He shoved one sleeve back to show the thick band of survival traced up his wrist and beyond. </p><p> </p><p>“Not dead.” Unless he was. He did die here, didn’t he? Over and over and that was the furthest thing from the point right now. “Just lost. Come on, we need to find—” Find <em> what? </em>Where? They needed it, they did, and then the others needed to get out. They did, he did not. </p><p> </p><p>“I found you!”</p><p> </p><p>His grip on cogs and shifting things faltered at her voice. His brother’s head snapped towards it with a snarl already on his lips, but without anything to hold color and lines in some semblance of shape, the twist-turn consumed them both until he found himself spinning and spinning and cold. </p><p> </p><p>The contortionist’s grin split her face in two. “You’re so fast, it was hard to catch up! I’m glad I found you before that one could confuse you again.”</p><p> </p><p>Her hold was tight and everything he needed and it would be so, so easy to match her grip note for note. </p><p> </p><p>It would have been easy to fall and let the dance pull him apart at the beginning of it all. He didn’t. He kept his life at the expense of himself. If he didn’t twist them back around now he never would — given the slightest chance, she would devour him until he was nothing but lovesick scars. </p><p> </p><p>Even as it tore fire across his lungs and wrapped tightwire around his throat, he pulled away. </p><p> </p><p>Their spinning dance continued in the very air around him, twining through his marrow and doing all it could to contort him into wine red ribbons. He held fast. Each breath pierced through him in buckshot and cannonfire.</p><p> </p><p>Still, still, she smiled. “Did you forget the steps?” A pout. “I thought I found you fast enough that he couldn’t mess with your head too much! I’m sorry, love.”</p><p> </p><p>Her honesty was far and away the worst part. </p><p> </p><p>“I remember.” </p><p> </p><p>Wider, now. Far too wide. “Then come on!”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Allcolor flickered through the blank canvas of her eyes as her brows furrowed. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>He repaid her honesty in kind. “You know I’m afraid of you, right?” Even as he said it, even as true as he knew it was, he wondered how it could be the case with someone so visibly fragile.</p><p> </p><p>Blink. Another. Color drowned in hurt. “I…” Her head tilted, and tilted, and tilted. Thoughtful. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts whited out. “...What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not angry.” She spun and smiled at him, small and gentle and pained. “It hurts a little, but I forgive you.”</p><p> </p><p>For a brief, stomach-churning moment, gratitude welled in his throat. He couldn’t give it voice, and so couldn’t speak. Another twirl and they were together once more, her up on her tiptoes and joining her hands with his. He did nothing but watch. What could he say to this? </p><p> </p><p>“I love all of you, ringmaster.” Another smile. Small. Gentle. So, so familiar. “Even your fear.”</p><p> </p><p>He grinned for lack of anything else to convey the maelstrom in his head. “You don’t even see why, do you?”</p><p> </p><p>She, of all things, stuck her tongue out at him. “You’ve spent <em> way </em> too much time with the Watcher’s people if you’re talking to me about <em> seeing </em>things.” A laugh, and she tugged on his hands in an attempt to pull him down and close the distance between them. </p><p> </p><p>When still he didn’t move, her smile faltered. “Come on, ringmaster. We need to finish the dance first, okay? We’ll finish this, and then you’ll talk to Nikola, and then we can figure out whatever is bothering you.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Talk to Nikola. </em> Such a simple, clean way to describe the tortures Nikola might invent. If he told the contortionist that, even spelled it out as <em> why </em> that fear existed, she wouldn’t understand. At this point, she couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>That was the other side of his fear, wasn’t it? How close was <em> he </em> to <em> this? </em> If she was like him that meant enough time would make him like her, cold and loving and unable to see fright and pain as anything but a game. </p><p> </p><p>But he would not be like her. </p><p> </p><p>“No, Lye.” Maybe using her name was cruel. Maybe it was kind. “I’m not doing any of that. I’m done.”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes widened, then narrowed to glare at a point in the haze. “I’m sorry I came too late, okay? I am. That man, he got in your head and tried to ruin everything again!” She looked back at him, pleading. “The show must go on, ringmaster!”</p><p> </p><p>Each word landed like blades, but she was the one who pulled him to his feet and tugged him to keep walking even with bladescoring across every inch of skin. She shouldn’t have taught him how to push through if she didn’t want him to use her lessons.</p><p> </p><p>“Not with me.” He shook his head and ignored the ache in his chest. Not cutting. Crushing. “I’m done.”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could do anything but stare, he gripped those shuddering, constrained cogs and pushed them to spin harder than ever before. Falsehoods chattered through the air in howling, laughing bursts and nothing was anything but the nothing fell in his line all the same.</p><p> </p><p>Stranger and stranger and still in his command. The music box ticked on, faster, louder, earsplitting screeches coiling through his flesh. </p><p> </p><p>It was wrong and it hurt in a way that could only feel right and it was <em> his. </em>Each light, each sound, each step in the dance of the unreal certainty in this shifting corner of nowhere. His. </p><p> </p><p><em> His </em> did not mean <em> tame. </em>Pulling it to slow scalded his lungs in white-hot agony, but he would not relent. Not this nowhere, not this nowhen. </p><p> </p><p>His spinning ceased in the eye of the storm. </p><p> </p><p>The dancer. The Archivist. The <em> it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>As he saw it, there were two roles: dead and alive. He would make the same choice he always had. </p><p> </p><p>“Enjoying the show, Archivist?” Arms held wide, grin held wider. Welcoming. Jubilant. “It’s an honor to have you in the front row.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, it is! The Eye can see all it wants, you and Elias and <em> everyone!” </em>Nikola spared some attention to greet him. “Did you have fun exploring?” </p><p> </p><p>The Archivist stood dumbstruck as the ringmaster leaned over to pick up a small square of plastic, left forgotten as if it were no more than a scrapped costume. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a perfect venue, Nikola. Though I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble in moving here.”</p><p> </p><p>She waved a hand. “Bygones, my dear. We’ll fix you right up after the dance. Until then, let’s <em> enjoy </em>ourselves!”</p><p> </p><p>Stubborn as ever, the Archivist shook his head. “No, that doesn’t— You were <em> helping </em>us, you—”</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster tossed the detonator up into the air and caught it again. “Just another role, isn’t it? Prodigal son, turncoat, whatever name you like.” He winked. “Welcome to the second act.”</p><p> </p><p>As the Archivist stared with open, blatant despair, Nikola laughed at a shrieking pitch. “Toss it here! Come on, Archivist, see if you can catch it!”</p><p> </p><p>If he hesitated, that would be it. He did as told. Grinning. All a game. All a game.</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist followed the detonator’s arc, but he didn’t reach for it. Nikola threw it back to the ringmaster in a low, taunting sweep, her hands clapping in delight as soon as they were free.</p><p> </p><p>A snatch from the air with no attempted intervention; he held <em> it </em>out in offering.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be nice.” The Archivist’s eyes darted between the ringmaster’s face and his hand, though he remained still. The ringmaster waved the detonator. Enticing. “Go on, take it. I promise I won’t throw it to Nikola again.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, the Archivist attempted to seize it from the ringmaster’s grip, but his hand closed around empty everything — the ringmaster was so much faster than him it was laughable, and so he laughed.</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t mean I’m <em> giving </em>it to you! Come on, Archivist, you’re smarter than that.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I— I know you, and this isn’t— I know your name—”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, well, there’s your first problem!”</p><p> </p><p>The Archivist didn’t reply, head bowed. Thinking. Focusing. Centering himself. He’d learned well.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster shot Nikola a raised eyebrow, all, <em> Can you believe this guy?, </em>and she let out another tittering laugh.</p><p> </p><p>Silver eyes widened once more. “Danny! Your— your name is Danny. I know you. ...You know <em> me.” </em></p><p> </p><p>With both Jon and Nikola locked on him, their attention like needlepoints under his skin, the ringmaster smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“Danny died a <em> long </em>time ago, Archivist.”</p><p> </p><p>As fresh horror welled in Jon’s eyes, Nikola gasped, delighted.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, ringmaster, you’ve come so <em> far.” </em> She clapped again as she twirled over to stand at his back. “I thought you might undo all my hard work — so close to being finished, too! I was <em> so </em>disappointed in you.” A hand pet through his hair, cold and possessive. “But all you needed was to return to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Far from the first time she’d done this, of course.</p><p> </p><p>The thing hovering over him could make no expressions, but from its hum he could tell it was pleased. Its sharp fingers danced over his face to rake across his scalp, and though the boiling, screeching pain wracked through every part of him meant he had no hope of distinguishing any new pinpricks, he knew the gesture would leave his hair matted with blood.</p><p> </p><p>His smile shifted, more grimace than anything now, but it did not drop. Not while that blood meant his heart still beat. Not while this creature watched his every move. It hummed again, and below his fear and agony there was a spark of relief.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a shame, really — so many of us were so <em> excited </em>to wear you, but you wear yourself beautifully.” It leaned forward to press an icy, grotesque mockery of a kiss to his forehead with stolen lips. Fresh tears welled. “We’ll have to strip you down to the core before you can join us, and it’ll be hard work. Are you ready for that, my dear?”</p><p> </p><p>It was a moment before he realized it wanted him to answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he croaked.</p><p> </p><p>“And you’ll try your very hardest?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes,<em> yes…” </em></p><p> </p><p>It sounded somehow proud when it said, “Marvelous,” and ran cool fingers across his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>A flinch was a truth was a death sentence. An embrace was a lie was a suicide. Stock-still. Stock-still. Doll-like, really.</p><p> </p><p>Him allowing the touch seemed to convince Jon more than any of the ringmaster’s words so far. Hurt and hate simmered under his misery.</p><p> </p><p>Fine. He needed focus to See, and little focused as well as hatred.</p><p> </p><p>The ringmaster’s head cocked, playful. “Do you like games, Archivist? Because I think a game of keep-away is just what will complete the show. Unless…” The detonator slipped through his hand until it dangled, with only his first finger and thumb to keep it from falling.</p><p> </p><p>True panic washed away everything else on Jon’s face. Not ideal, not with how it’d interrupt his concentration, but if it meant he would follow and give the ringmaster the chance to shove him out of here, he’d take it. </p><p> </p><p>He threw the detonator up once more, then let it plummet. Jon scrambled forward, but before he could get anywhere near, the ringmaster spun with a low swoop and caught it mere inches from the ground. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so <em> clumsy </em>today!” His grin clashed against the twist of anger and desperation on Jon’s face. Nikola’s glee was deafening.</p><p> </p><p>His next steps were backwards, and as quickly as Jon attempted to follow and as slowly as the ringmaster appeared to be moving, the distance between them remained the same.</p><p> </p><p>Skirt wherewhen he knew the audience and the dollmaker and the choir were — too close, and Jon would join their chorus. Toss the detonator up again, watch fear thrill through Jon’s eyes and betrayal hasten his steps, all to no avail. A sharp turn to avoid wildfire struggling against containment. </p><p> </p><p>Keep onward. Keep outward. Keep beyondward. </p><p> </p><p>Circumstance did not change who Jon was, insatiable interrogatives and all. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny!” Even as he panted from the strain of it, Jon managed to hold onto a clarity that had very little to do with the ringmaster’s influence. <em> “Why </em> are you doing this after— after <em> everything?” </em></p><p> </p><p>He mulled it over, flipping the detonator from hand to hand. “Because I want to!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Why?!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I figured out who I really am, Archivist.” A grin so wide it hurt. “Everything else followed.”</p><p> </p><p>It was strange to lie with nothing but honesty. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re <em> friends, </em> mum.”</p><p> </p><p>The truth. Dating someone he wasn’t friends with seemed like a bad idea.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you?” Arms folded, mouth pinched. “Because you seemed very <em> friendly </em>with each other.”</p><p> </p><p>It was stupid of him to agree to go somewhere for dinner he knew his mum liked. Amar had suggested it, and he didn’t think it was a big deal. He knew his mother was meeting with a friend of hers that evening, which was why he thought he could get away with a date at all. Plain bad luck they picked the same restaurant.</p><p> </p><p>Before he could swear all over again, his mother rubbed her eyes. “Why are you <em> doing </em>this, Danny? Just to hurt me, is that it?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, mum! We’re <em> friends, </em> I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you’re not just trying to attack me after— after <em> everything </em>with your brother?”</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t intended to, but the way she didn’t even say a <em> name </em>made him itch to start. </p><p> </p><p>But no. He knew how to navigate here — play along with the rules. It made things easier, even though it meant neither she nor his father knew him at all. They knew their good son. His coach knew the hard worker. His friends, the energetic daredevil. His teachers, the enthusiastic slacker.</p><p> </p><p>His brother knew him. That was enough. </p><p> </p><p>“You know I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, truth in lie. They knew he wouldn’t because he was far too good a child to do so. He knew he wouldn’t because they wouldn’t blame him alone. Even if his brother didn’t live here anymore, they were glad to pin him with anything that required less than a dozen leaps of logic before landing on his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>Every time they did, he got that much closer to snapping and moving into that disaster of a flat across town. Some days the only thing that kept him from it was how he wasn’t quite old enough to get a job that’d actually help cover any rent or utilities. </p><p> </p><p>So, for now, he would lie with truths.</p><p> </p><p>His mother let out a slow sigh as she reached over to comb her fingers through his hair. She didn’t notice his wince when her nails dragged along his scalp as she leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, <em> sayang. </em>I know you’re too good to do that to me.”</p><p> </p><p>The version of him that was better than any of this simply never existed. Not then, not now.</p><p> </p><p>It was hard to lead when he wasn’t sure where the edges were, but he knew he could at least navigate along a safer path. It would have to be enough.</p><p> </p><p>And, if they kept on in the same way, it probably would have been. </p><p> </p><p>But the ringmaster was the master of none and the dancer pulled his strings. He didn’t even see her, only heard a trilled, “You don’t get to have him <em> all </em>to yourself!” before the screech of metallic truthlies filled his head. Caught off guard and desperate, he dug his fingers into cogs and sensation in some attempt to keep them rooted, but the only thing he got for his struggle against her was thick copper in his nose. One hand flew up to staunch the flow of blood; the other remained clutched around the detonator.</p><p> </p><p>He’d fallen for the worst sort of hope. She believed that he was hers once more, but that didn’t mean she trusted him to remain. </p><p> </p><p>Jon was gone. The ringmaster stood alone. </p><p> </p><p>The only thing for it was to press onward. Outward. Beyondward. </p><p> </p><p>There was no one to carry him, here.</p><p> </p><p>“I can <em> walk,” </em>he mumbled. This close to his brother’s ear, he didn’t need to worry about speaking up too much. “I’m almost double digits, I’m big enough.”</p><p> </p><p>His brother couldn’t quite look at him when their heads were side-by-side, but his snort of laughter was obvious. “You messed up your ankle, dummy. If you walk, you’ll mess it up more.”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than argue, he dragged his sleeve over his face. He wasn’t crying, but his nose had run some. He didn’t cry, not ever. He was a big kid.</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t even hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>His brother didn’t bother to humor that, just kept walking along.</p><p> </p><p>He sniffed again. “Do you think mum and dad will get mad?”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t mum <em> and </em> dad anymore. It hadn’t been for almost a year now. Habit locked the words together into one in his head — <em> mumandad. DannyandTim </em>would remain one word no matter how many trips between houses they made.</p><p> </p><p>A divorce wouldn’t change their mutual displeasure. His brother told him the same thing — the creek was too fast to wade in, and the muddy brown water meant there was no seeing the bottom. </p><p> </p><p>He thought he would be fine. He was, until his shoe slipped on a rock gone slick with algae. His brother had waded right in after him despite all his warnings.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You can say ‘I told you so,” </em>he’d tried to grumble. His brother had just rolled his eyes and held out his hand, then helped him climb up on his back.</p><p> </p><p>“If they get mad, just say I pushed you, okay?” His brother’s neck craned a bit so he could try and look over with a smile. “Then they won’t be mad at just you.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you didn’t push me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could push you now so it’s not lying.”</p><p> </p><p>He kicked his brother with the foot that wasn’t throbbing. Even when heel collided with hip, his brother only laughed as he carried him home.</p><p> </p><p>It was nice, being carried, but he couldn’t do it forever.</p><p> </p><p>At last, at last, his brother found him again, just as he always did. He didn’t know where the bat came from, but considering their venue there must be no shortage of props. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny!” Tim, his brother, <em> finally, </em> raced up to join him. “Shit, I thought— the contortionist, she—”</p><p> </p><p>“Told her to fuck off.” It was meant to be cavalier, a way to succinctly say he was <em> finished </em>with her, but it came wet around iron and salt. “We need to— You need to get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>It came as if cued. Maybe it was.</p><p> </p><p>A door. Yellow. Nonexistent. If one came to them, the others must have their own. He had to believe that. </p><p> </p><p>The pieces clicked in an instant. “No. No, I’m <em> not—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Tim.” No lies in the truth of this smile. “We both knew it was going to end like this.” </p><p> </p><p>He swiped a hand across his face in an attempt to clear away blood and caught just as many tears between his fingers. Tim let go of the bat to grab his arms. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny, I am <em> not </em> leaving you again, I’m <em> not, </em>so—”</p><p> </p><p>“And I’m not letting you die for <em> no reason!” </em> He wished he wasn’t scared. He wished here, now, at the end of it all, he could find some acceptance. At the very least, he would scrape up the spine to do this alone. He had to. “I got to live again for a little bit. That’s because of you, okay? It is. You did everything you could.”</p><p> </p><p>Denial, still. “You’re not dying. You aren’t, you have a g-ddamn tattoo to finish, and—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> know </em>how many people have died so I could stay alive, and I’m not letting you be one of them. I’m not, I’m not.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Danny—” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, Tim.” The door opened at their side. “Go. <em> Please, </em> I’m begging.” </p><p> </p><p>There was no silence. Not here. Never. Even so, the world stilled, just for a moment. </p><p> </p><p>“Not without a hug.” </p><p> </p><p>The sob that tore in Danny’s lungs never made it past his throat, raw and swollen as it was. He could only nod.</p><p> </p><p>He knew he must be getting blood all over Tim’s shirt with the way his face was pressed against his shoulder, but he didn’t have it in him to relent. Not yet. Not yet. Tim was brave, he was, and maybe this would make Danny brave, too.  </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said one.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” said the other.</p><p> </p><p>They stood there too long, Danny knew. Every moment wasted was one closer to the ritual’s end. He needed to go. </p><p> </p><p>When he pulled back, Tim didn’t fight, and Danny could only be grateful. His will would’ve needed little resistance to break.</p><p> </p><p>Tim studied his face. Memorized it. “I love you too, alright? I swear I tried to find a different way. They aren’t much for negotiation though, especially not this one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Negotiation, wh—?”</p><p> </p><p>He barely caught the hard, resolute look in Tim’s eyes before hands hit solid against his chest. There was no grace in his fall as he crashed to the ground, <em> hard.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Stunned, his eyes flew up to see Tim looking down at him, framed in yellow wood. In one hand sat a familiar plastic square. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d say I’m sorry, but we promised no lies, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Before Danny could move past his shock and do something, <em> anything, </em>Tim acted. </p><p> </p><p>The world ended with no more than the click of a closing door.</p><p><br/>
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<h3 class="anh">Notes:</h3><p class="fakenotes">But Danny was finished following scripts.</p><p class="bline">
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</p><p>He burst forward. His hands turned from flat palms to fists and back again as he pounded against the wood.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Helen!” </em> Screamed loud enough he was sure his throat was nothing but mirror shards. <em> “Helen, open the—” </em></p><p> </p><p>A creak, then release. The street. London. Outside. </p><p> </p><p>Faster than he’d ever moved in his life, he tore back towards the front door. No mind to the bystanders. No care for whatever he thought his plan might be. He had to get to Tim. He had to. He had to. He had to, he had to, <em>he had to, he—</em></p><p> </p><p>He was not faster than the press of a button. </p><p> </p><p>Fire and shrapnel and failure tore over his skin and sent him flying back into asphalt. He rolled once, twice, then pushed himself up without waiting for his head to stop its colorspin. Molten shards filled his chest. His jacket was reduced to mere tatters that fell to the ground as he staggered to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>He could only stare. The ruins of Madame Tussauds blazed, and with it burned everything Danny Stoker had ever known. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until shrapnel crunched underfoot that he noticed Basira in the corner of his eye, dazed and excruciatingly <em> real. </em></p><p> </p><p>Mindless, he slipped a hand in hers. There was no delay before she returned his grip note for desperate note. </p><p> </p><p>The dance, at last, was over.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: canon-typical unreality/violence/death, dissociation, derealization, depersonalization, manipulation, emotional abuse, gaslighting, flashbacks, identity issues, conditioning, non-graphic/abstract depiction of skinning, parental abuse, homophobia, restraints (specifically being bound to a table), brief description of scars, character death<br/>eveything happens very fast here so none lingered on, heads up!</p><p>keeping the rest of my nonsense to the end note this time around so here we go:</p><p>art!!<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/624276111464988673">this hlm-inspired young tim! he's just baby!</a>] <i>[link broken atm - to be updated!]</i></p><p>suggested listening: demons and angels by lowborn<br/>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">playlist so far</a>]</p><p>in the wings: curtain call</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. STRENGTH</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On having relearned, reconnected, and redefined.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>art!!<br/>THREE from the lovely @the-east-art on tumblr:<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369451015782400/anyway-titanfalling-tearing-my-heart-out-like">their expressions!! im dead on the ground!!!</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369473235124225">the caption on this one straight up knocked the breath from my lungs</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648369597922295808">a collection of doodles that i ADORE</a>]</p><p>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648370137217531904/titanfalling-considering-theres-only-one">my own lil danny ref sheet! (plus a bonus tim)</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/post/648371938206629888/titanfalling-a-bitch-forgot-to-add-the-tattoo">aaaaand a reference for danny's tattoo!</a>]</p><p>cws in the end note, but they're very light</p><p>suggested listening: in our bedroom after the war by stars<br/>(if no other section, i REALLY suggest listening to everything in the epilogue's segment of the playlist — i agonized for so long which one i should suggest here bc they ALL end me)<br/>full playlist: [<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_346G3K1i8nb8VufQ7NeHZ7fz">youtube</a> | <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0gyQhN6VO0QVbhyMddYnIB?si=-xH8oGUKTH25rhgav-9cWg">spotify</a> | <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/12LE2Pm95dugx4Yf4vMWTqp3PE4aCr4ETJt4jNLytcH0/edit">lyric analysis</a>]<br/>[<a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2kqfJton2TUxfAUohBb7Jh?si=TD8TgpdxS6u4xd4B41Jn1A">the contortionist's own playlist</a> | <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/172K0T7yIk0qZIt2vH9YZ7nHB5CdScCP9QigWLid6S3U/edit?usp=sharing">lyric analysis</a>]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Back to the beginning, huh? Or, similar enough, anyway. I’d say it's nostalgic if the word didn’t make my skin crawl. No doubt you understand.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next few days paid no mind to Danny, and he did them the same courtesy. He knew mercy when he saw it. </p><p> </p><p>Knowing that he spent those days at the Institute did little for his fuzzy memories. Basira took care of most business with the police — he vaguely recalled her telling him that the whole disaster was <em>sectioned,</em> which meant they’d find something innocuous to blame and wash their hands of the matter. Too spooky for the force, she’d said. He wouldn’t argue. </p><p> </p><p>There was an interview at one point, but whoever they sent to interview him spent most of it going on about his “terrible shock” and how they understood what he must be going through. The only part that stuck with him was how hard he had to fight to keep from laughing in their face. </p><p> </p><p>For the best. Had that kicked off, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stop. Martin had enough to deal with from him. </p><p> </p><p>Jon was right, all the way back when he first mentioned it — tucked in a basement closet at the Institute was a second cot. Danny assumed Melanie and Basira went home each night, but he and Martin camped out in the archives in those days just after; Danny with that same pink knit blanket Jon had offered him not even a month ago.</p><p> </p><p>They couldn’t stay there forever. Eventually, Danny had to return home, too. </p><p> </p><p>Martin offered to stay with him like he did last time Tim was gone. Danny turned him down without much thought. It could take weeks this time, even <em> months, </em>and Martin deserved to sleep somewhere a little more comfortable than an old couch. As much as Danny appreciated the gesture, it wasn’t sustainable. </p><p> </p><p>Acclimating was a matter of time, as always. Danny was still getting used to how everything looked drained of color. Not monochromatic, no, but far less vibrant than he was used to. He’d take desaturation over death any day, if that was the extent of the cost.</p><p> </p><p>But he wouldn’t think about that right now. </p><p> </p><p>All that waited for him at home was an envelope, set on the kitchen table. Part of Danny wondered if he should be suspicious of such a clearly placed prop, but his brother’s handwriting on the back crushed that thought with ease. </p><p> </p><p>Inside were necessities that would have never occurred to Danny — bank cards, PIN numbers, important passwords, even a couple notes on how he might begin the process of reclaiming his legal identity. It seemed like enough of an uphill battle that he considered not bothering before now — much less easy to blow it off when Tim had the first steps ready to go. </p><p> </p><p>He’d have to go to their mother’s house to dig up his birth certificate, and find some sort of photo ID. Where the hell was his passport? Did it get binned with whatever odds and ends they’d cleared from his old flat? What then? He might need a bank statement or something, but that’d be tied to an address that wasn’t his anymore, and— </p><p> </p><p>And none of it mattered tonight. </p><p> </p><p>The note Tim left with it all wasn’t long or flooded with emotion, but Danny cried regardless, then internally made fun of himself for it. He never used to cry this much, not even before everything with the troupe. New trauma was a hell of a drug. </p><p> </p><p>When Danny pulled out the last papers from the envelope, something small dropped from between them and began to roll across the table. Right as it fell off the edge, he caught it in one hand. </p><p> </p><p>In the center of his palm, bracketed by scars, lay a familiar gold band.</p><p> </p><p>It hadn’t magically gone down a size since the last time Danny had it. The thought was what counted, sure, but he still couldn’t wear the thing. He’d just have to put it back on that same chain, for however long it took before he could return it. The thought of the number of <em> Lord of the Rings </em>references that would inevitably trigger made him cry all over again. </p><p> </p><p>He laughed, too. That helped. So did calling Tim a bastard in a half-dozen different languages.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning Danny got up at the usual time, made himself a pot of coffee, and did his best to ignore how quiet the house was without the sound of the shower and music playing just a bit too loud. He’d have to make a new routine, and soon. Keeping one riddled with such blatant gaps would do nothing but depress him. </p><p> </p><p>When was the last time he was alone this long? Certainly not with the troupe, not after the earliest days — isolation wasn’t a tool they needed once they had his cooperation. Solitude made him too nervous right after he left. In that awful week when Tim was gone, Martin stayed. </p><p> </p><p>This time, Danny was alone. Not forever. For now. </p><p> </p><p>When the last of the coffee was gone — too much for one person, frankly — Danny made his way to the front door, and almost laughed at the bright yellow replacement. </p><p> </p><p>He knocked, of course. </p><p> </p><p>A creak filled every corner of the house and revealed a lipstick-bound smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you want to come in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just trying to get to work.”</p><p> </p><p>Helen hummed in stereo. “Walk with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will I come out at the Institute?” </p><p> </p><p>She offered nothing but another smile. It was as close as he would get.</p><p> </p><p>The number of opportunities she had to kill him that she hadn’t taken decided it. She might change her mind, of course, but Danny didn’t think today was that day. </p><p> </p><p>“When you put it like that, I’m sold. Lead the way.” </p><p> </p><p>He followed Helen into herself, checking the mirrors they passed for damage. Each reflected him alone, but he supposed that made sense.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad I didn’t crack any more of you, this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Helen laughed. “Shatter me once, shame on you, shatter me twice—”</p><p> </p><p>“Still shame on me, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Now you’re getting it.”</p><p> </p><p>The halls around him would have worsened his ever-present headache if he tried to understand them, but he knew better than that. Migraine medication was slowly becoming a staple — no need to speed that up.</p><p> </p><p>“I did try to find you all,” Helen said, apropos of nothing. “Normally I can find anyone, anywhere, if they’ve been in my halls.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we were damn far from normal,” finished Danny. She hummed again, this time in mono.</p><p> </p><p>“The center of the dance was its own difficulty.” No falter to step or twist to her tone, but the way she didn’t look at him spoke volumes. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I know.” Better than she did. “But even if you could get a door there, I don’t think he would have taken it.”</p><p> </p><p>“And are you still Danny?” </p><p> </p><p>He glanced over at her with a brow raised. “What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“You told me before that part of being Danny is Tim.” Her hair caught a nonexistent breeze. “So, are you still Danny?”</p><p> </p><p>He took a moment to think. It was a fair question, all things considered. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I am.” He shrugged. “I mean, he didn’t vanish from existence, right? He’s just gone for a bit.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re looking for him.”</p><p> </p><p>An odd way of putting it, and not one that quite tracked. “Not really, I don’t think. He’s not <em> lost, </em>he—”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t say you’re <em> searching.” </em> Helen said it as if she thought Danny was a bit dense. “You’re <em> looking.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>He let it sit for a moment, turning the words over in his head. Searching meant… hide and seek, finding, tracking. Looking meant… patience, watching, waiting. Expectant, not desperate.</p><p> </p><p>“Suppose I am, then.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no way to know how far they went or how long it was before she spoke up again. “I found some of the ones who had looked for Helen.” </p><p> </p><p>“...And?” He kept his tone neutral.</p><p> </p><p>“They weren’t, anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>If they weren’t looking, they certainly weren’t searching. There was no grief in her words.</p><p> </p><p>Before Jon, before <em> all </em>of this, he would have felt no more grief than Helen upon learning the same thing. The ringmaster wouldn’t have seen the point of such an endeavor in the first place. What did it matter if people who knew the old him had stopped looking? Why would they waste their time when he’d found his purpose?</p><p> </p><p>Danny couldn’t project on Helen too much, here. They were both part of something not quite human, not quite avatar, but that didn’t make their experience the same. Still, even manifestations deserved someone to expect them; someone watching and waiting and patient. </p><p> </p><p>“I would look for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Red curled in ribbons around Helen’s glasses as she watched him from the corner of one eye. “Would you find me?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you let me.”</p><p> </p><p>Helen didn’t laugh so much as she smiled so much as her brow furrowed in curiosity-confusion-gratitude. Each lingered like a flashbulb — no more than a split second, but with the remnants laid over his vision no matter how much he blinked. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, you’re in the best place for that, aren’t you?” She opened a new door, one that made no secret of its nonexistence. Still yellow, of course. No need to ruin a theme. </p><p> </p><p>Danny hesitated before stepping into the Institute. “Can I—” He regretted the half-said question as soon as it left his mouth, but he’d regret backing out more. “Can I hug you?”</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, he’d managed to surprise her. There was no point in denying the bit of satisfaction that brought.</p><p> </p><p>“...Why?”</p><p> </p><p>He stifled a laugh. “Uh, because you’ve saved my damn life three times over by now? I think that’s earned a hug. Unless your whole body is made of Spiral nonsense that’ll kill me if I touch you or something.”</p><p> </p><p>By her face, she seemed like she wanted to laugh too, in disbelief if nothing else, so Danny stopped fighting down his grin. </p><p> </p><p>A long-suffering sigh, then she held up one arm. Danny took the tacit permission. </p><p> </p><p>The closest thing he could compare to how she felt was the way static built on old television screens, thick enough that he could run his hands along the glass and feel like he was wiping it off. The buzz of it always lingered on his skin for ages after. </p><p> </p><p>Helen patted his back with one hand. Credit for trying. Out of some level of mercy, he pulled back after no more than a moment and shot her one last smile. </p><p> </p><p>“See you around, Helen.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise, Danny.” She tapped her glasses with one nail, and for a moment they looked like nothing but saffron and delusion. Show-off. “I’ll keep a door out for you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t believe the number of explanations different news channels are throwing around — I’ve heard everything from a gas leak to a terror attack. There’s even some conspiracy nutters going on about how it’s a publicity stunt. That’s what happens when you blow up a major tourist attraction rather than some defunct wax museum, I guess. I’m not really sure how exploding the place is supposed to help boost ticket sales, but that’s just me.”</p><p><br/>
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<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Danny didn’t think any of the others blamed him for coming out of the Unknowing when so few others managed the same. <em> He </em> wouldn’t blame <em> them </em>for doing so, even if he’d given pushing them out of that place-that-wasn’t-a-place his all.</p><p> </p><p>He tried with Daisy. She soundly rejected him.</p><p> </p><p>He tried with Jon. Nikola snapped him back up before they could get far. </p><p> </p><p>Tim, well. Special case. Danny had always thought he was the more stubborn between them, but with this, Tim had him beat. </p><p> </p><p>He’d given his all and saved none. Tim would have something to say about inevitability, no doubt. </p><p> </p><p>There was only him. Danny Stoker, last living remnant of the manifestation of the Stranger, the Circus of the Other. He wondered if that meant <em> he </em>was the dancer now, if only for lack of anyone else to take up the role. Unpleasant.</p><p> </p><p>Unpleasant and unimportant.</p><p> </p><p>As melancholy as those thoughts were, at the end of it all, he wasn’t the only one who escaped the Unknowing. They left apart, but not alone. </p><p> </p><p>Basira glanced up as Danny rapped on the doorframe of the once-empty office she’d claimed.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today. Martin said you went home last night.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did, yeah, but there’s not much to do around there.” Danny shrugged. “Figured it was better to be bored with company rather than bored by myself.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t look convinced. “Shouldn’t you be on some kind of medical leave? Since you got all…” A vague hand gestured at his scattered plasters and butterfly bandages. His shirt at least covered the healthy bruise on one shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>He made his own gesture at the gauze just visible across one side of her forehead, in part covered by her hijab — a nasty scrape from shrapnel, one that would leave her a mark to remember it by. “You got plenty…” Another wave of his hand. “...too, so.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a lot here I still need to take care of.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure. <em> And </em>you don’t want to sit around at home any more than I do.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira relented with a motion somewhere between a nod and shrug, then turned back to her computer. It was only a second before she paused again. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>“You saw Daisy during the Unknowing.” It wasn’t a question. </p><p> </p><p>Danny leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah. I’m assuming you didn’t find her?”</p><p> </p><p>The click of keys was as close to a reply as he got for a long moment. </p><p> </p><p>“No. I don’t remember much of what happened. I know I found you, but I just have that and getting myself out.”</p><p> </p><p>With how scattered he was and how his grip on the spin of everything slipped in and out, he couldn’t take much credit for that. She found her own way. </p><p> </p><p>“No surprise, there. My memories of it are jumbled, too, and I’m a lot more used to all that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you remember what happened when you saw her?”</p><p> </p><p>Not a story Basira would love, but there wasn’t much Danny could do about that. She asked, he would answer. “I, um. She told me to back off, and I tried to say we needed to stick together.” He cleared his throat. “Then she tried to kill me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did she know it was you?” Basira’s voice was hard to read. It didn’t sound defensive; it hardly sounded curious. Information gathering, no more and no less.</p><p> </p><p>“She said she did, but— I mean, with how everything was there, I don’t—“</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t sugarcoat it.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course. “...She never trusted me. You said you didn’t think I was a threat. She did. In all that, it’s probably the only thing she knew.” His arms folded. “So she might not have known who I was by name, or much of anything about me, but she knew she saw me as a threat and that she wanted to, uh, <em> take care </em>of me and all.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira didn’t say anything right away, though she’d shifted to study the floor rather than her computer screen, deep in thought the whole while.  </p><p> </p><p>“Got it.”</p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t much getting around it. Daisy had wanted him dead from minute one, and it was only Tim and Basira who dissuaded her to start, then the simple fact that he was an asset when it came to the Unknowing. Once that was over, who knew if she’d make a move? Would his potential danger outweigh his worth now?</p><p> </p><p>Jon had said he and Daisy weren’t bosom friends, either. If Danny was on the chopping block, no doubt Jon would have been next. </p><p> </p><p>None of it mattered now. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you just see her and I?” </p><p> </p><p>Basira’s voice startled Danny out of snowballing cynicism. “No, I, uh… I saw all of you at different points.” He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “There’s going to be some explanation needed when Jon wakes up.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“When I found him, Nikola was right there. Same with the detonator.” He ran a hand through his hair. His nails were far too blunt to catch on any of the thin scars — his hair, even short as it was, covered them well enough, and it wasn’t as if anyone could see the top of his head with his height. “The only way I could see to get it <em> and </em>him without Nikola killing either of us was to… play ringmaster.”</p><p> </p><p>“You pretended you were double-crossing us.” Basira went to scratch at her forehead, then stopped herself and instead adjusted the burgundy fabric of her hijab. “And Jon bought it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. I started to lead him out by acting like I was taunting him with the detonator and all, but I couldn’t get far before Nikola pulled him back.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did she not believe you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hard to say, obviously.” He pushed off the doorframe to take the single other chair by her desk. “I think she did, but maybe she didn’t trust it to stick.” A shrug. “It might have just been that she didn’t want me taking her toy.”</p><p> </p><p>At that, Basira’s lip curled. “Huh. Well, you’ve got some time to decide how you want to phrase it. Apparently the doctors don’t have any idea when he’ll wake up. I heard that there was something weird going on with him, but I haven’t been to the hospital myself yet. Georgie’s taken care of most of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” Danny fiddled with one of the cords on his hoodie as they lapsed once more into silence. Not everyone he saw came from the archives. </p><p> </p><p>“I also, um… Okay, so. Daisy was right, I think, about how there were others like me in the troupe. People who weren’t just— just plastic or stuffing or whatever. More in-between.”</p><p> </p><p>When he looked up again, it was to see her full attention narrowed on him. She didn’t interrupt. </p><p> </p><p>“I talked to the, um, the contortionist, before I met up with you guys again. I think… I think she was in-between, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira considered that. “Okay. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, her joints were hinged and all. You saw that when we got Tim.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“But her skin felt like— like <em> skin. </em>It was cold, but still soft, and it had give like normal. The stuffed ones were a little closer to what you’d expect, but skin with sawdust and clove and everything under it feels plenty different from normal flesh.” Danny almost used a kiss as an example of how much more natural she felt, but the memories that came alongside made something thud in his chest — the split-second feeling of a fall, like he’d missed a step on a staircase. “And her appearance never changed. No costume swaps. She even said she had a name before she joined.”</p><p> </p><p>“She did?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm. Apparently she tried to remember it after I left, since she knew names matter to me. Lye, she said it was.” When Basira’s brow furrowed, he mimicked the extrapolation he was given down to the same sing-song cadence: <em> “L— Y— E, </em>Lye!”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t do that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Basira waved him off. “Lye, like… the chemical? That was her name?”</p><p> </p><p>“As far as she knew. I mean, maybe she just remembered the <em> word </em> and thought it worked as well as anything, but she <em> tried. </em>That has to mean something, right?”</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t tell what Basira was thinking. “What do you think it means?”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t know. That I could have saved her, maybe. That there was enough of whoever she used to be left.” It was strange to talk to Basira about this, of all people, but she met the contortionist. Poor circumstances; still more than nothing. “It means she was forced into everything just as much as me, even longer than I was.”</p><p> </p><p>“Forced into the show, maybe.” Vague relief hit Danny as Basira turned in her chair, glad to be out of direct scrutiny. “But I don’t think anyone forced her to treat you the way she did.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t—” It took some effort to push down the immediate defense that jumped to his lips. “That was how everything there worked. She didn’t know anything different.”</p><p> </p><p>“Neither did you. You still left.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Dark eyes locked on him once more. “How many times did you ask her to leave with you?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Twice.” </p><p> </p><p>“And how many times did Tim ask you to leave?”</p><p> </p><p> “He— It wasn’t that straightforward—”</p><p> </p><p>“Danny.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed. “Once, when he asked me to meet him again after the first time. After that, it was just sort of… assumed.” He sat forward in his chair. “But a lot of it was because Jon didn’t deserve getting stuck there, and on my end, uh…” A shift where he sat. “More direct harm, I guess. Punishments for things.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you left because you were being hurt, and because this guy you never met was about to get hurt.” Basira’s voice was clinical. Cut-and-dry. “You and her were in a relationship, but you being hurt and leaving because of it wasn’t enough of a reason for her to follow, even when you asked her directly. Unless she didn’t know what sort of things happened to you.”</p><p> </p><p>The fact that Danny couldn’t chime right in and claim that the contortionist was kept in the dark on that answered well enough on its own. All he could do was look down at those same scars on his hands. </p><p> </p><p>“She knew why you left, but to her you being there was more important than you being safe.” </p><p> </p><p>Again, he didn’t reply. He saw Basira’s point clear as day, of course he did, but knowing how she connected A to B didn’t mean he could draw the same line himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Being sympathetic makes sense. Sympathy isn’t absolution.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny met her eyes. “She didn’t have any choice in any of it. No more than I did.”</p><p><br/>
“Tim asked you to leave. You did. You asked her to leave. She didn’t. At a certain point, you <em> do </em>have a choice.” Basira returned to her work. “Some people don’t want to be saved.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“The most annoying thing so far is how everyone side-eyes me all the time, like they’re waiting for me to have some big breakdown or something. I mean, you all probably did the same thing after I first got out, I just didn’t notice. Same thing when they had Tim, but I don’t think there was a minute in there I <em> wasn’t </em>having some breakdown or another. It’s just a pain, now. I mean, I signed the damn job contract and got the Eye to stop staring at me, but two seconds later I’ve got a half-dozen coworkers all jazzed to pick up the slack. I’ll have a breakdown when I’m good and ready, thank you very much.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’d expected the height to bother him more. Maybe it was that he wasn’t strung over it somehow. Sitting on the low wall around the roof of the Institute was nowhere near as dangerous as a tightrope, not with his balance.</p><p> </p><p>The lack of a blindfold was also nice. No fire below, either. Damn near the Ritz.</p><p> </p><p>There weren’t any eyes on him here. Or, if there were, he couldn’t feel them. He’d appreciate the reprieve while he had it.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the door behind him opened. Whichever entity was responsible for dramatic irony was hard to say, so he mentally flipped off the Eye and the Stranger both. They could pass it along to the proper terror’s office if it wasn’t their purview. </p><p> </p><p>“Danny?” Melanie sounded oddly hesitant.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced over one shoulder with a casual wave. “Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey yourself.” The reply snapped out like a spark, but she hesitated again before continuing. “What are you, um… What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I needed to get out. Tired of being watched and all, you know?” He nudged the brick with one heel. “Tired of a lot of things.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”  Gravel crunched at his back. “But maybe we could… talk about that? Somewhere else?” </p><p> </p><p>The strange note in her voice remained. Danny turned again to see her eyes darting between him and the empty air mere inches away.</p><p> </p><p>With that, it clicked. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> Jesus, </em>I’m not—” He hastily turned where he sat so his feet no longer hung over the drop. “I wasn’t going to— G-d, I’m sorry.” One hand scrubbed over his face. “Probably not a great visual for the local volatile mess to hang out on the roof, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie looked like she was contemplating hitting him, but she gave only a strained, “Not really, no.” </p><p> </p><p>“Especially since Tim’s gone.” Danny didn’t know how he could say the words with such ease, but out they came. </p><p> </p><p>“...Right.” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie crossed the roof to join him by the ledge. It was just shy of the perfect height for her to lean against, and that compared to how his feet damn near touched the ground from his place sitting on top made him snicker. </p><p> </p><p>“Piss off,” she muttered as she dug one sharp elbow into his thigh. A sudden jolt and a brief flash of worry across her face interrupted her eyeroll, so Danny finished it with his own.</p><p> </p><p>“Relax. I’m not gonna fall.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re sure of that, are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Look, if I didn’t have good balance, I’d be dead a dozen times over by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie grimaced and rubbed her temples with one hand. “Can you go just— just <em> twelve hours </em> without saying something <em> incredibly </em>grim?”</p><p> </p><p>“Since you asked, no.”</p><p> </p><p>She swatted at him again, this time without a trace of fear. For a moment, they settled into quiet, watching the Thames and listening to the sound of the city. </p><p> </p><p>“So, if you don’t need to be talked off a ledge,” Melanie began, cavalier. Danny couldn’t fathom how there was once a point where he hadn’t liked her. “Why <em> did </em> you come up here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, didn’t you know?”</p><p> </p><p>He paused until she looked over at him, confused and expectant.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s swooping season in London.” </p><p> </p><p>Watching confusion shift to abject fury was a <em> delight, </em>and Danny couldn’t keep himself from cracking up. He leaned back over the ledge, scanning the crowd over each shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Who of these lucky people am I going to dive-bomb today? I think…”</p><p> </p><p>“Sit <em> up, </em> you bloody <em> lunatic—”  </em></p><p> </p><p>He batted at the hands trying to grab him by the shirt and pull him upright, still grinning. “Maybe parasol over there? Who carries a <em> parasol </em> in <em> 2017?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“If you fall I am <em> not </em> taking the— wait, a <em> parasol?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, right over there, see?”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie’s brows flew up. “...Maybe they’re a vampire.”</p><p> </p><p>“G-d, why didn’t I think of that?” Danny clapped his hands together. “Now I <em> have </em>to go for them.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “...Why?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Look, if they don’t know what the hell is up with my spooky blood, I don’t know who will.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a joke about <em> Stoker </em>in there somewhere.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny groaned. “Whatever it is, I’ve already heard it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em>pardon me,” </em>retorted Melanie. “I didn’t realize I was dealing with the king of humor.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ha, well. King <em> in absentia, </em>anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>An unfortunately sobering reply. Melanie filled their silence by tugging her curls into a short ponytail. Clumsy, no doubt, but excuse enough to pretend like it was the only reason they said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m, uh…” There was a scuffing noise as Melanie shifted where she stood. “I’m not very good at all this.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny slipped off his perch to stand next to her. There was no way for him to lean on it with her ease, not when settling his elbows on top in the same way would leave him standing at a ninety-degree angle, but he didn’t mind the stone digging into his hip. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to be. I’m not, either.” </p><p> </p><p>Melanie didn’t watch him. She studied everything else — the river, the sky, the people passing below. Danny half-expected her to start peering into the gravel at their feet if it meant she wasn’t sitting around staring at him and waiting for his sob story, but distraction came before she was pushed to that.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my <em> g-d, </em> is— Is that car painted with <em> cheetah print?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“What? Where?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny followed the line of her arm as she pointed, chipped turquoise nail polish leading right to the star of the hour. </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit.”</p><p> </p><p>“If that’s legal, it <em> should not be.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“See, my thought was that if it parked somewhere near enough, I was going to go there <em> immediately </em> and con whoever I had to to get the keys.” Danny smacked one hand on the smooth stone in front of him. “It’s a nightmare and I <em> need </em>it.”</p><p> </p><p>Melanie snorted. “Or you could put away the magician’s hat and learn to hotwire a car, like an <em> adult.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do—”  He pulled back to look over at her. “Do <em> you </em>know how to hotwire a car?”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than reply, she mimed zipping her lips, and when he elbowed her for it, she didn’t hesitate to return the attack in full force.</p><p> </p><p>The sounds of the city were no melody, but Danny thought he might be able to find the rhythm in them anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It all just comes back to the same thing, I guess: what’s <em> next? </em>I mean, I know in the short term, day by day, but I don’t want to get stuck in day by day. I’ve mostly just been helping out Basira at the Institute, but outside that, there’s… not a whole lot going on, for me. I don’t want to let that be my routine.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny had given his fair share of monologues before, but doing so to someone comatose made it feel far closer to a soliloquy. If anyone could hear people speaking even while in that state, though, it would be Jon. </p><p> </p><p>So, here he stood, leaned against the wall and chatting away to a Jon who could not answer. Nostalgic, indeed.</p><p> </p><p>When the door next to him opened, Danny managed to hold back a surprised flinch. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Martin.”</p><p> </p><p>The smile Martin gave was a weak, tired thing. “Hi. I got you a drink.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” He took the offered cup. A hot drink in August would make no sense if hospitals weren’t kept glacially cold, as a rule. The taste of chocolate when he sipped it brought out his own muted smile. </p><p> </p><p>Martin took the chair by Jon’s bed. “Anything new?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. Still flatlining, still with ridiculous brain activity.” Danny took a long drink. “Another medical marvel for the archives.” One that couldn’t be patched up with a home first aid kit and a strong stomach. </p><p> </p><p>“Is he even <em> alive, </em>really?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s far from the first person I’ve seen who’s pretty much alive without a working heart or lungs.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin winced. “That’s… not much of a comfort, considering the examples you have.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t mean he’s all plastic or stuffing now,” Danny said with a wave of his hand. “Just that the parameters are a little different with things like us.” </p><p> </p><p><em> “You </em>still breathe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. And my skin cracks. And my blood is different. And I can go through walls. And I’ve got pretty inhuman balance. And—”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, I get it.” Martin watched the steam curling from his own cup — tea, no doubt. “How’ve you been doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny reached up to rub at a knot in one shoulder. “As well as can be expected, probably. Just… planning.”</p><p> </p><p>“Planning?”</p><p> </p><p>“Funeral stuff.” Giving up on working out the tension, his hand dropped again. “I don’t even know if I’m gonna go, but I’m planning it all.”</p><p> </p><p>“By yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>With a somewhat bitter laugh, Danny replied, “It’s not like I’m going to let our <em> parents </em>do it. No chance in hell.”</p><p> </p><p>From Martin’s face, Danny assumed Tim had never talked much about all that, but whatever Martin saw on Danny’s own must have filled the gaps well enough. </p><p> </p><p>“Right. If you need help, though…” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll let you know.” </p><p> </p><p>Another tired smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Pretty sure.” He sighed. “Part of it’s that most of the people there still think I’m dead, and I’m not sure that’s the <em> best </em>time for reintroductions. I’m also putting off seeing my mum in general.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s head tilted as he set down his tea. “Why’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>“She calls some, but every time she brings it around to how she wants me to move out of Tim’s house and in with her.” Some days they could talk for near a half hour without that. Other calls lasted only minutes before careening downhill. “And every time she does, I hang up. Either she’ll get the memo or she’ll stop calling, so. Can’t hang up on her face to face.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Right.” There was no steady metronome of a heart monitor to fill their quiet. “What’s the other part?”</p><p> </p><p>Danny shrugged. “It feels weird to go to the funeral of a guy who’s gonna be back eventually. Like, we’re not going to hold a funeral for Jon even though he’s down for the count, because he’s going to wake up someday.” </p><p> </p><p>The look on Martin’s face matched the exact one Danny wore when Tim had insisted that Danny would survive the circus’s destruction. Tim had been right in the end, hadn’t he?</p><p> </p><p>“Well, um… Until then,” Martin replied, clearly humoring him. “Are you going to be alright living alone?”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than immediately brush off Martin’s concern, Danny forced himself to consider it. Would he? He’d made it this long well enough, but that didn’t mean it was forever. Without any way to tell when Tim would return, he needed to consider all possibilities. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. I think I will be.” He took another drink. “I mean, I’ve already figured out what things help when I’m in a state. Maybe I’ll get a cat. After I’m sure I can take care of <em> myself, </em> anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, if you need me to come over or something, just—”</p><p> </p><p>“Let you know.” Danny looked up from staring at the floor in contemplation. “That goes both ways.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” Placation flattened the assent.</p><p> </p><p>Martin studied Jon’s face like he was waiting for something; a twitch of his eyelid, a short breath, a furrow in his brow. Impatient, and doing his best to hide it. No doubt he would busy himself with distraction after distraction. </p><p> </p><p>They could humor each other. “How about you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“How’ve you been doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m— I’m alright,” Martin answered as he picked at a hangnail.  “Just trying to keep the Institute from falling apart, since Elias is gone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Heartbreaking to see the back of him.”</p><p> </p><p>A pause as Martin cleaned his glasses with his shirt. “It’s good that he’s not around, but I don’t know how much better Lukas will be.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll just have to give it some time, I guess.” Danny shrugged. “All else fails, I’ll see if I can make it so he doesn’t remember what the Institute <em> is; </em> just a good old fashioned coup.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um, I wouldn’t suggest that? He’s part of the Lonely, so he likes throwing people into some weird isolation dimension.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Duly noted.” Before Danny could continue, his phone — once Tim’s, but Tim could fuss about it when he got back — buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out showed a calendar alert that made him sigh. He should have expected this to pop up sooner rather than later.</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s brows knit. ”What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got the last appointment for that tattoo I got with Tim tomorrow,” Danny explained with a nod to his right shoulder. <em> “G-d, </em> Abby’s gonna be a wreck…”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you— You’re still getting it finished, even though…?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, you want me to run around with a half-done tattoo?” Danny snorted. “Tim would never let me live it down.”</p><p> </p><p>That same expression flashed over Martin’s face. Danny pretended he didn’t see. </p><p> </p><p>“It just feels a bit… hasty?” A pause of consideration. “I could come with you, if you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny’s first urge was to turn him down. Those tattoos were his and Tim’s, and finishing it with someone in Tim’s stead felt wrong. His brother was, for now, gone. Impermanence didn’t make it easier. </p><p> </p><p>But Danny was not the only one who missed Tim. Who loved him. Danny <em>could</em> finish the tattoo with just him and Abby, but that didn’t mean he <em> had </em>to.</p><p> </p><p>“...Yeah, if you’re alright with it. That’d be nice.” One corner of his mouth tugged up even through his melancholy. “You’ll like Abby, she’s great.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure. What time?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s at three. Still gives me time to get to Sadler’s Wells after, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sadler’s Wells?” Martin glanced up from where he was putting the appointment in his own phone. “Wasn’t that one of the places we went during all the… during that search?”</p><p> </p><p>Unpleasant as ever to think about, but Danny had no intention of letting that stop him in his tracks. “Yeah, but it’s also a contemporary dance house. I think I’m gonna sign up for some of the adult classes.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin still looked confused. “Don’t you already know everything they’d teach you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I know a lot,” Danny answered with a crooked smile. “But there’s gaps. Besides, I think I want to learn somewhere… better. I can do a standing backflip without making a sound, but if you asked me for ballroom, I’d have nothing for you.” Probably. He might just need to get in a starting position and hear the music, but he’d like to build something more than muscle memory. </p><p> </p><p>“You— wait, you can?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, flip?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I mean, without a <em> sound </em>— is that even possible?”</p><p> </p><p>Rather than answer, Danny took the challenge and pushed off the wall. He didn’t need much space, so they should be fine. He could set his hot chocolate down, but… </p><p> </p><p>May as well go the extra mile. </p><p> </p><p>A flick of his wrist sent the cup straight up in the air, then he jumped with a twist. If any of Jon’s machines were running past a faint whirr, they would have drowned out the barely-there tap as he landed on the balls of his feet, reaching out to catch his cup in the nick of time.</p><p> </p><p>He straightened to see Martin out of the chair, hands outstretched as if there was any chance of <em> him </em>catching the cup if Danny missed. For a moment, he merely gaped, then collected himself.</p><p> </p><p><em> “That </em>was showing off.”</p><p> </p><p>Amusement filled Danny's smile. “You asked me to show off.”</p><p> </p><p>“I— I asked about <em> flipping, </em> not—” Martin sputtered and waved his hands for emphasis. “Not <em> cup tricks!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Look, if you want a performance, you get a performance.” The nonchalant tone did nothing to suppress his grin. </p><p> </p><p>“Whoever your instructor is there," Martin remarked with heavy exasperation as he sat. “They have no idea what’s coming.” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, if they expected someone like me, I’d be worried about them.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Okay, true.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny laughed and took a sip from the cup in question. “I’m actually hoping that if I focus on hip hop styles, it’ll feed the more, uh, <em> eldritch </em>boss. Popping and locking can be uncanny as all hell if you’re good at it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That makes sense,” agreed Martin. “It’s probably better than walking into, y’know… active hostage situations.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eh, I might still get bored. Don’t take it off the table.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, do! <em> Do </em>take it off the table!”  </p><p> </p><p>Danny snickered. “I’ve got free reign ‘til Tim’s back. Might as well get into some vigilante justice.” </p><p> </p><p>Again, that same expression; a blend of grief and hurt and pity that made him bristle. </p><p> </p><p>“You know there’s a <em> reason </em> I know he’s coming back, right? And it’s not just denial, or <em> bereavement, </em>or whatever?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t say—”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t have to.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin locked on Jon again, effectively cutting off the conversation. “Fine. You have your reasons, and we’ll leave it at that.” </p><p> </p><p>Not a chance. </p><p> </p><p>“I should be <em> dead, </em> Martin.”</p><p> </p><p>“We never had proof for sure—”</p><p> </p><p>“Cut the bullshit. Destroying the circus should have killed me, and it didn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Palpable exhaustion rolled off Martin in waves. “Meaning?”</p><p> </p><p>“If Tim made some kind of deal—”</p><p> </p><p>“With<em> what?” </em>Interruption was a two-way street. “The Stranger? Or, or the Desolation, since it was all fire? How would either of those keep you alive?”</p><p> </p><p>“They wouldn’t.” Danny drained his cup. “Because that’s not what he did.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“You heard how he talked about me dying, Martin. It was always so matter-of-fact, like he just <em> knew </em> I’d live, and you know as well as I do that he <em> knew </em>he wouldn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin’s fingers pressed hard against his eyes. “Yes, because he was stubborn and <em> suicidal! </em> I mean—” One hand swept through the air. “You’re saying he made some deal with the devil or something, but he <em> hated </em> the entities and everything to do with them. Joining up with one does <em> not </em>sound like the Tim I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Unmoved, Danny said, “That’s because the Tim you knew first thought I was dead. Then, he might not have made that choice, but— Martin, before we went back to the House of Wax the first time, he was reading statements, and told me he was <em> trying to plan ahead.” </em>He pulled out his phone once more to check his notes. “I tracked the two I saw down. Case number 0151403, Antonio Blake — he saw people’s imminent deaths in his dreams. And, and case number 9720406, Nathanial Thorp — gambled with some kind of reaper so he wouldn’t die. He was reading End statements! Plus— shit, where is…”</p><p> </p><p>Danny searched his pockets with increasingly manic energy until he rooted out Tim’s note. “Read this.” </p><p> </p><p>Seconds felt like eons as Martin stared at the page, his apprehension thick in the air, before at last he took it and scanned the words. By now, Danny had it memorized, and could mouth along as Martin read.</p><p> </p>
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</div><p> </p><p><em> “Back soon,” </em> Danny quoted once Martin was finished. “And he left his ring with it all — the ring I had the entire time he was gone before. He knew what he was doing! I mean, not the logistics, since I don’t know if any statements actually outlined what he was trying to do, but he was <em> planning, </em> Martin, <em> planning </em>and—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Stop, </em> just…” Martin’s hand was raised, face buried in the other. “Just stop, please.” </p><p> </p><p>The wind drained from Danny’s sails, but it took none of his conviction. “He’s not gone for good.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then where is he? Just because he<em> thought </em> he would—" Martin cut himself off when his voice started to build. "If he made some deal with the End, if he chose to become an avatar so you could live, <em> where is he?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“...He’ll be back.” It was the closest thing to an answer Danny had.</p><p> </p><p>Grief carved deep lines under Martin's eyes as he got to his feet with a last look back to Jon. One hand reached out as if to straighten his blanket or brush hair from his forehead, but it pulled back before doing either. </p><p> </p><p>“We can’t wait forever.”</p><p> </p><p>Danny stared levelly back. “He waited for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever Martin thought of that, he said nothing. For a moment, he studied Danny’s face as if searching for cracks, then his eyes dropped. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without waiting for a reply, Martin left. Danny and Jon were alone. </p><p> </p><p>For now. Not forever. </p><p> </p><p>Until then, he would finish his tattoo. He’d give Abby a long hug, maybe get dinner with her and Joy. He’d help out Basira at the Institute, and steal some of Tim’s nail polish, and take a dance class. He would warp the walls for a laugh with Helen, and tease and gossip with Melanie, and bother Martin into a movie night or two. </p><p> </p><p>Danny Stoker was never a misnomer, except for when it was, and the things that hurt him weren’t always worth doing. Sometimes, a hurt was no more than what it was. It was a lesson he had yet to truly learn, but there was no rush. </p><p> </p><p>He had his name, and his friends, and his life. Someday, he would have his brother again, too. </p><p> </p><p>That would be enough.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CWs: discussion of death + abuse; at one point Danny's chilling on a roof and some are concerned for obvious reasons, though hurting himself never even crosses his mind </p><p>gushing time. i can't even begin to express how staggered i am by the response to this whole fic! i went into it assuming it'd get significantly less traction than road to damascus considering how fucking niche a longfic about danny "entire character is Rowdy and Is Tim's Dead Brother" stoker is, so all your love has blown me away. if i could send each and every one of you a fruit basket i would</p><p>considering i write so gddamn much you'd think i'd be able to eloquently thank everyone or something here, but nope. i am simply a Mess. know that i love you all, and hope you enjoy the rest of the series just as much!!</p><p>as always, you can catch me at <a href="https://titanfalling2.tumblr.com/">@titanfalling2</a> on tumblr &lt;3</p><p><b>[edit 2/5/2020:</b> like i've said here and there, my writing this series is a way for me to improve and practice before i move on to original fiction, which means a lot of analysis of my own work. after three thousand gregorian years, i finished my in-depth piecing apart of hlm, and thought i might as well make it public. [<a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1uSKI0q11sdEI62p9dZ-6F96WoDppen6IlRIWBsO9clU/edit?usp=sharing">check it out here</a>] if you're curious about the hlm director's cut!]</p>
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